Tinderbox
by SusieCues
Summary: Rachel and Tom, making it through the worst and the best of times...together, hanging tough. Rachel S. and T. Chandler
1. Chapter 1

Moaning, Rachel shut her eyes, sprawled out on her bunk, listening to the creaks and squeaks of the Nathan James as it skittishly navigated rough seas. She covered her eyes with her forearm, reveling in her not so small victory. Oh, no—it was huge, make no mistake, the hugest. She'd discovered 'The Cure' for the pandemic scourge several hours ago and she still couldn't believe it. Now, nearly zero two hundred hours, she was still wide awake, painfully aware that her mind and body demanded that she get quality sleep. How many hours of sleep of that type had she gotten since this mission had begun? Precious little. Thus far, she'd barely been comatose an hour and a half, though it felt as if she'd been sleeping for days. Groggy, Rachel sighed. Aside from her achieving hard-won success, something else on her mind prickled. Her breathing hitched momentarily when she thought back, reliving the encounter with the captain, who had been desperate to know if the survival of the 6 meant salvation for those who remained on the planet. From all reports, terrestrial population was dwindling faster each day. All Rachel had seen in his intense crystal clear eyes had been strain mingled with torture. Every touch, each glance, every emotionally charged word from Captain T. Chandler left her wanting more. She scolded herself, ever mindful that his wedding band was not for show. He loved his wife dearly. He didn't have to say it, the captain lived and breathed it. He would go to hell and back for her and their two children.

Not knowing his woman, she envied her, wondered what about her had attracted Thomas Chandler. Rachel rolled her head from side to side, imagining, and speculating if perhaps she possessed hints of those qualities and attributes. Grimly, she decided, she'd better stop thinking like this, or risk complete and utter dysfunction. Easier said than done, she lamented, again going over what she was thinking, welded with the lack of rational thought. Was she crazy, or was she burned-out, allowing herself to feel anything other than admiration and high regard for the hunky man's man? He was all that a naval officer needed to be, this stalwart commander, who was stealing a little more of her somber heart day-by-day. She knew that in no way was he pouring on the charm. Some days, it was the opposite when stress, fatigue and the unknown preyed on him.

"Rach," she muttered, hearing the firmness in her voice. She'd given herself that nickname at the age of 8, had her relatives using it by the time she'd turned 9. "You'd better get a grip. Remain calm and carry on... And I don't mean _carry on_, carry on with him. There will be _no_ affair." Pursing her lips, Rachel half-smiled as the ship funneled into the trough of a 30-foot wave beginning to crest, poised to crash over the Nathan James' foredeck. Right, they had kissed, _in the line of duty_ and had hugged just a while ago because in his eyes she'd come through to save the day, optimistically followed by many more to save the infected. It was best not to dwell on those unpredictable incidences, which underscored her bouts with melancholia, a by-product of the life of dedication, toil and commitment she'd chosen of her own free will.

She moved, shuddered as she shifted onto her right side in the cramped space. The ship rose and the pit of her stomach sank lower. Why was she this nauseated, so disoriented? After all this, why was she suffering from seasickness? If indeed that was what this was. The Nathan James pitched and rolled, never deviating from its mad slicing through the storm-churned ocean. Rachel clutched her stomach, forcing herself not to hurl, which wasn't easy. She felt as though she might at any moment. What had she eaten? Then she remembered; she hadn't, not a morsel since morning. She'd forgone lunch too and had picked at, and nibbled dinner. Was it any wonder her practically empty stomach growled? What with all the constant research, deliberation and experimentation, Rachel was becoming a gaunt semblance of her former, appreciably more vibrant and fuller-figure self. She loved food, all sorts, Italian cuisine especially. Abstinence from sustenance wasn't her norm, but since the whole world had changed, for the worse, so had her eating habits. They'd become dreadful, unwise, but a result of crisis upon crisis. She devoted her waking thoughts to ridding the world of this malignant malady, and on this singular day, she dared to believe she had.

They possessed the virus-specific panacea, rushing full steam ahead to deliver it stateside.

The buffeted ship bore up, slip-sliding as it rode these obscenely turbulent waves. Rachel grunted, ruing her grumbling gut and her treacherous feelings. Stealing the affections of a woman's husband was beneath her. A woman who would do such a thing was poison, with a capital p. If that was how she really felt, why wasn't she squashing all thought of making herself more desirable to the handsome, virile captain of the Nathan James? Guilt washed over her and Rachel, distractedly, drew the navy-issued covers closer against her neck, cocooning herself with it, finally. Could she just be fond of him, and leave it at that? She'd work on it, work really hard at it, because her actions would set the tone. Didn't the woman always set the tone in matters of the heart, or was that only true in romance novels and romantic comedic movies? Well, supposedly romantically comedic. In a split second, she recalled having seen a movie not all that long ago, touting the premise that a woman should think like a man. Okay, she'd do it, making sure she did nothing that might suggest she was leading the captain on. Although he was a 'big boy,' quite capable of not having the wool pulled over his eyes, Rachel wouldn't hand him a cap.

Snug in her little bunk, she yawned, about to begin counting sheep. She got as far as 'one,' when the knock came on her cabin door. Alertly, she called out, "Who is it?"

"It's me. Tuh—uh—Captain Chandler." He sucked in a deep breath and stared holes into the barrier separating them. His throat was killing him, deep within it. Unshed tears stung his eyes. His heart shambled as it beat.

_Tom_, raced through her mind. Her heart bucking, she tore out of the bunk, the first foot hitting the floor, skidding, as she sent the wool blanket diving to the floor. She almost tripped, her feet getting tangled. "I'll be right there," Rachel stammered, grimacing, certain that he must have heard how breathless she sounded. _Keep calm, keep calm_, she upbraided. "Just a sec." She smoothed out her T-shirt and sweats, made sure her ponytail wasn't lopsided, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Frowning fiercely, she lurched for the door, the Nathan James helping with that. The sea had become rougher. Taking deeper breaths, she settled herself, the static in her brain coalescing.

"I know it's late. If I've awakened you, I'm sorry." Anguish tinged his contrite words. Noiselessly, he rammed the blunt end of his fist into the door, followed by the perspired side of his sheeny face. "I have to speak with you. It's important," he said, all choked up. _Urgent_, his mind re-emphasized. "_Please_..." Wearily, he scrubbed his face with his other hand and internalized, _There's nobody else on this ship who can really assure me. There's only you—only you_…

Nodding as she opened the door, Rachel was immediately struck by the commander's misery-riddled countenance. Her practiced, aloof attitude morphed into one of acute concern. "Wha-?" Chandler veritably toppled into her cramped quarters, forcing her to spring out of his way. While wrapping her arms about herself, rocking slightly on the balls of her feet, she demanded, "What is it?" Hysteria tinctured her words. Had the newly-cured patients fallen gravely ill again? Her heart raced along with her mind.

"You're one hundred percent sure this is the cure?" jumbled from his mouth. His forehead was a sea of deep creases. "Not only a vaccine, but you can cure people." There was no hint of it being a question.

Softly, ever so softly, which she had discovered was the best way of arresting his full attention, she deferentially replied, "As certain as I can be under these conditions, Captain." A pervasive warmth spread from her heart, outward. He looked lost, needing coddling. "What's wrong?" Instinctively she knew there must be something terribly amiss. His manner was all over the place where rigid control usually was.

The captain broke down, his composure destroyed, his will to be strong demolished. No longer the man of elegant steely resolve and purpose, he crumpled before her very eyes. The demoralization in his voice brought Rachel to his side, a comforting hand reaching for him. His eyes searched hers as they filled with tears. "It's—it's my family." He forced strength into his timbre. "Darien, Ashley and Sam…" His voice got very small, tight and rough. "Dad was able to get through to us. They're all infected—_my_ family! They're sick—they're dying!"

With no further thought, Rachel gathered him into her arms tenderly, whispering encouragement that it was going to be all right. Said as convincingly as she could make it. Decisive, Tom grappled her body to himself like she was a life preserver, intent on cleaving to her with every ounce of strength he had. "We'll get to them on time," she murmured, fully realizing now that despite this wicked storm, it was full speed ahead. Gradually, they moved as one, she coaxing him to sit on her bunk.

"What if we don't? What if we don't?" he whimpered, like a frightened child. In his mind's eyes, he pictured his loved ones suffering in agony the way the 6 had.

"We will," Rachel drove home, epitomizing what it meant to have backbone. "Captain, they'll be cured. Don't allow yourself to dwell on anything other than that." She pulled herself together, sensing that he was trying to do the very same thing.

As disciplined as he could manage, Chandler responded, appreciating her fortitude coupled with her compassion. "Thank you, Rachel. You've been a rock through all of this and I can't tell you enough how much that means to…me." Not holding back, he kissed the top of her head and arched with the rolling of his battle-tested ship.

Rachel jerked her head to the side, smiling into his eyes that penetrated the depths of her soul. "It's been my consummate honor to serve…" Although initially hesitant, she blurted nevertheless—"Tom." And brushed one of his hands she'd raised with her lips. "Without all of your support, I'd have accomplished nothing."

She'd done it again, as easily as his little girl could make her mother laugh. Rachel put his mind at ease. "We make a good team."

Nodding, she knew that to be truth. "We do."

The captain took his time leaving.


	2. Chapter 2

_They_ weren't going to let her leave, these duplicitous captors. She kept asking, but the answer continued to be a firm, "No." She knew that by the looks she received, the hushed voices speaking her name, she was now their obstinate prisoner. "_You have got to be kidding me_!" It had been too many days since the separations. Too many questions left unanswered about what was really going on here in Amy Granderson's Baltimore, her stronghold, her select enclave, Avocet, 'The Crack House,' which it had been dubbed. The truth about this place continued to send shock waves through Rachel. She knew deep inside that what these scientists were perpetrating here wasn't right. They weren't trying to cure the masses, only those deemed worthy of living on, '_the noblesse_.' What was she to do, locked away here in solitary confinement? They hauled her out only when the scientists deemed her input for consultation purposes was necessary.

Alisha Granderson, Junior Officer of the Deck, Amy's daughter, had been removed from this small, one-desk office, since converted into a slapdash place for Rachel to lay her head, several days ago. She missed the younger woman's company fiercely. Rachel suspected that she had been given food, when she felt like calling it that, MREs, on account of Alisha. Not too much sustenance, though; keeping her hungry served their ulterior purpose, the research scientist surmised. Which it did, she was at their mercy, and they weren't letting her forget it. When she needed a restroom, she would be escorted by two tear gas mask-wearing men, bearing assault rifles. She never knew what to make out of them, having gotten the feeling on several occasions that they watched as she did her business, and, more…

Rachel sat on the edge of the empty, pitted desk, forlorn, idly twisting hair about her moist fingers, damp, fragrance-less strands. These spooky captors permitted she shower, but provided her with nothing to cleanse herself with. Water sufficed, tepid and hard. Towels were nonexistent, so soaking wet, she used whatever clothes they thought to provide her. Rachel pondered as her weighty thoughts blurred, fearing what the outcome of her imprisonment would mean for all those she had hoped to save. What had gone on aboard the _Nathan James_ seemed a memory that had happened years ago, not in a matter of weeks. The thoughts she entertained disturbed her, and that was putting it mildly. Having no idea what had become of the intrepid crew, the brave, young men and women under Captain Chandler's command, she worried endlessly. And what of the captain…Tom? Often, she felt as though he'd disappeared off the face of the earth. Her virile, enigmatic man, who constantly clouded her thoughts, snarled her emotions, whom she was missing. She was missing him terribly.

How many times had she relived their subversive kiss, meant to fool and abet, which had kindled passion, whether awake or in her dreams? She longed for the shelter of his powerful arms, his warmth and sympathy, his indomitable strength. The tease of his smile that did unspeakably delightful things to her heart.

"I pray you're all right," she spoke to the companionless room with a heavy sigh. "Where are you when I'm needing you most?"

Rachel shuddered, reflecting along such tenuous lines, completely certain that her detainment was a sure sign that all was amiss, so not good in this world turned upside down. An odd, demoralizing thought struck her, struck hard. Something she hadn't thought about in a very long time had wriggled its slimy way into her consciousness. As a young, dewy-eyed teen, she had once read a book, purely on her own, entitled, _How To Be Interesting_. Because, innately, as a lackluster schoolgirl, she thought of herself as dull, hopelessly doltish at every turn. As she tucked the drying strands she'd been toying with behind her ear, she recalled that, as a girlish adolescent, she'd been ever so shy. Not afraid of her own shadow shy, but bashful, when it'd come to being in the company of adolescent boys. Once, one of the prankish, conniving darlings had succeeded in adhering a sign to her back, which she'd discovered much later had read: 'Trip me, please; I haven't been anywhere exciting in ages…'

Rachel cringed, gathering herself up from the desk, despising what she'd been like back then. She thanked mercy for small favors that she no longer was a callow girl, but an intelligent, grown woman, who had one man thoroughly smitten, and another, utterly claimed by a wife, who gave clear indications that they'd become more than just friends. Sighing, Rachel sauntered over to the large tinted frameless glass window to peer out over nighttime Baltimore from this third-story vantage. Various lights, whether their source was actual fire, or electrical, dotted the immediate backdrop. In the distance, that plume of smoke never ceased. Reaching out with her mind, she thought about where Tom might be, and Tex too, for that matter.

She had never had a thing for a man with a beard; wasn't sure if she had one now. The scratch of Tex's facial growth beset her face and she couldn't help herself, smiling a little at a time. "The man has a way with words," she whispered, incapable of thinking in terms of past tense. His drawl languished in her ears. Sadness sluiced through her, painting the room a more somber shade of grey. "Wherever you are, brave man, my thoughts are with you. Godspeed." She shook herself, endeavoring to break herself out of this cask of gloom. "We'll meet again. Of that I'm confident."

Now, if only she could come up with a plucky method of foolproof escape, the yen for freedom clapping her roundly on her back. She would get clear of here, run and skulk to the pier, praying all the way that the _Nathan James_ hadn't left port by some miracle.

Knowing Tex, was he back, having reached higher ground, where he needed to be? Or, perhaps at this very moment, he too was being detained, at the hands of those who held her. What was happening in the midst of all this confusion? Would she ever find out what was really going on behind these walls? Locked away in this fashion, she pondered her fate and it wasn't a sanguine one. Unbidden, a sob escaped her lips, unable to banish the feeling that all was lost. Tex's chapped, yet pliant lips, scorching hers, convulsed back to life. Rachel plastered her fingertips to the crystal-clear glass, willing that she had answers and freedom.

And Tom…

"Are you safe? And your family?" Rachel rehashed aloud. "Where are you? Are you as I am? Locked away—might you be a mere few doors down? If I cry out, will you answer? Or, do they have you caged in their basement, somewhere? Waterboarding you, torturing you beyond reason, in an effort to extract vital information they believe you're withholding?" That insidious idea had her gasping, made her ill, and flashing back to what had passed between them during his vaccination, the mystical, keen locking of their eyes, which had been pleasurable, affirming, with unspoken sentiments and perceptions streaming from them all the while. How easy it was to get lost in the palatable machismo of Tom Chandler. He'd taken the needle, that had begun quivering in her hand from it and had firmly clutched that hand, saying nary a word. Her eyes had never strayed from his quizzical facial expression, as she wondered if and when he chose to kiss her, she would respond like a woman possessed.

"You enjoy this moment," he'd repeated, and she had obeyed as though listening to him and following through was something she'd been doing all her life. She wished it might have been the case, as she drew breath in, lungful after lungful, slowing the frantic rhythm of her heart. Tom was a man to lose herself in; he had given her another airtight hug instead of drugging her, rendering her brainless, with his mouth. And what better place should she conjure up the tender scenario than in here, where all appeared so bleak and sinister. Thinking about the totality of what Tom had become to her, what he would expect, roused hope and purpose.

Rachel, having become quite comfortable with talking to herself murmured, "I daresay you've become quite dear to me, Captain Tom Chandler. Whatever our fates, I will always hold you as such. But, I can't not see you again. We'll be together, once more. We must, Love…" She pried herself away from the window, pleased that she was no longer soaking wet, just a somewhat sticky damp and not feeling as alone. Scrabbling at imaginary chain-link fences, with no give, she moved through her enclosure like a cat, sleek and primed for taking action, after turning off the desk lamp. She stretched deliberately. Enough light shone through the window, though, to semi-illuminate her stale billet.

Easing herself down on the lumpy mattress with lint like pustules, Rachel lay flat, braiding her hands under her head and closed her eyes, fancying that Tom lay next to her on one side and Tex on her other. Of course, in real life, this would be considered kinky, she deliberated, blushing in the dark, with a sardonic grin creeping on her face. Such was not the lady's taste. Yet, in this strange world of arcane make-believe she'd been forced into, the three of them together like this was justifiable for all the right reasons. Her men, as different as night from day, stilled her jitters, blanketing her with security, and Eden.

Having her pick of men in this disease-ridden world, the _Nathan James_' master and Texas' quirky, whiskered man, who treasured a beauty's picture in a locket, would be it. Rachel's eyes shot open, reproving herself for forgetting another champion. "Oh…" she exhaled, her grin giving way, deepening into a blistering smile. She pictured him on the bridge, scowling down all foes.

"And you, oh valiant XO, too, of course. How could I have left you out?" Mike, along with her other courage-inspiring two, could be counted on for 'having her back.'

"Now, where to put you?" Rachel said, hatching. "Give way, no crowding. There's plenty of room…perhaps squarely on top." There was no pillow, so she hugged a tufted cushion from one of the upset office chairs she had disturbed in a rage, improvising. "Carry on, men. As you were." An hour passed and the sound of random gunfire rattled, shattering the stillness of the night. Rachel shifted, yawned unconsciously and slumbered on peacefully; in her dream, the _Nathan James_ sailed on in a cerulean blue sea. Tom, Mike and Tex were swabbing the deck and she was the breathtaking Odette, the vivacious princess, dancing _Swan Lake_ as they gaped at her, spellbound.


	3. Chapter 3

Jed, his nostrils flared, renewed his denunciation of the ransacking, pillaging culprits responsible for the current state of his son's billet. Although indignant, he strove to keep his rant G-rated although enough filthy language had filled his grandkids' ears to last them their own children's lifetimes, if Ashley and Sam had a fighting chance of becoming parents one day. On this latest tear, he picked up a helo manual with a look of barbed disgust, plopping it down atop a stack of papers that had a leaning tower of Pisa lean. The additional weight toppled the collection.

"Dad, don't. Get some rest," an edgy Tom insisted, coping as best he could with his restive mood. His eyes were bloodshot, his eyesight shaky.

A thorough straightening up, and disinfecting, was sorely in order, but now wasn't the time for housekeeping. Rest was the order for his worn-down father and worn-out babies. They'd have to make do midst this muddle, bedding down for the night. Come tomorrow, here aboard the Nathan James, the massive mop-up and shake-down would begin. Tom hugged his disheveled, bedraggled children. They had endured, had survived. No child should have gone through such a debacle. Sighing, he was as thankful as a battle-fatigued father could be. His kids were safe and sound. As long as he drew breath, it was his responsibility they stayed that way, he vowed. Events far beyond his control had put his family at risk. He had never meant for Ashley and Sam, their now deceased mother Darien, to withstand untold misery. Evil times and horrific unforeseen circumstances had plotted against the human race. Homo sapiens were nearly extinct.

Grumpily, the eldest of the Chandler's retorted, "Stupid virus! Stupid, stupid vicious, power-mad, people!" His grandkids had cried out in sheer terror when those rabid men had succeeded, breaking into that abandoned apartment where they had sought safety. Though he tried to push it out of his mind, he couldn't shake the thought that his grandkids would never be the same. Gritting his teeth, Jed vehemently spat, "Death's too good for every last one of those murderers!"

When his father got like this, there was no easy of calming him down. His daddy was on the warpath after having waged some war against those who'd sought to kill them. Tom was a far cry from being cool and level-headed himself. Violence glutted everyone, having saturated them with a steady diet of infamy and mayhem. Tom's body count tally topped an all-time high. Despite its justification, Tom wasn't a man in love with bloodshed. Killing another human wasn't like squashing a cockroach under his boot. Certainly he'd been well-trained to kill, but he hadn't morphed into an amoral killing machine gone berserk in the heat of battle.

The specter of those dead bodies, perpetually feeding the massive incinerators, was burned into Tom's brain. As if ending the lives of the misguided minions carrying out Granderson's obscene orders could bring his beloved Darien back to him, Ashley, Sam and Jed. Perhaps less principled men threw ethicality to the wind as a result of rampant bloodletting, but not Tom Chandler. His morality wasn't a by-product of pop culture. His value system was a heritage, forged by courage, strength of character and fortitude learned at his father's knee.

Tom's children were settled in after he'd kissed and hugged them as if they were bear cubs and he, as their big poppa, turned to Jed. "Please, Dad. Do it for me. Lie down before you fall down."

Like a billowing sail that had lost much of the gust filling it, Jed relaxed, seeing his son sag a bit along with him. _He gives the Rock of Gibraltar some serious competition_, the older man thought, unspeakably proud of his robust, seemingly unstoppable son. No man had one better than Tom. He wasn't a chip off the old block. He was a block in his own right. "Aye, Captain." Before the elder Chandler laid himself down on the portable cot provided, Jed embraced Tom like he was granddaddy bear. Emotion choked him, flooding his words. He was teary. "Son, I'm the proudest father in the world. You do yourself and everyone privileged to know you _proud_."

"Thanks, Pop. Coming from you, it means everything." Tom gripped his father fiercely as softly-spoken words leeched from him. "You made me what I am." Tenderly, and in fatherly fashion, he passed along, "Now—get some shut-eye."

"You're making that an order?"

"If you want it that way, you got it."

"I get it," Jed acknowledged, lying down and wrapping the blanket about himself. His son could be a real hard-nose. Like father, like son. Jed had to admit that it did feel good to bed down after what he and the kids had been through. "I'll be raring to go tomorrow. You can count on me, Son. All hands on deck."

Sagely, Tom imposed, "Only if you're up to it."

"What are you talking about? Of course I'll be up to it, lending a hand where it's needed. They tore your ship apart."

"And we'll put it back together again," Tom said by way of a challenge. While treading to the hatch, he lightly mentioned, "Speaking of being proud, Pop, you're tops." He reminded himself how his old man was getting up in years, but it wasn't what Jed enjoyed having his nose rubbed in. "Eight bells."

"Make it zero six hundred," Jed said gruffly, staring his son dead in the eye. "I'll be up before those four bells."

"Pop, that's six a.m. Way too early," Ted protested just as staunchly.

"What am I? Soft?" Jed grumbled back.

"Did I say that?" His father could still go toe-to-toe with the best of them.

"Not in so many words, but the implication is there."

Tom rubbed the back of his neck. He was dead on his feet. "You deserve to sleep in."

"Says who?" Jed challenged.

"I do, that's who." Tom wearily thought: _Here we go again_. "Okay, look. If you want to rise and shine at four bells, be my guest. You can keep Mike company after his watch is over."

Yawning, Jed concluded, "I'll do that. Now, out. The kids are sleeping like bumps on logs, poor things. We can only hope that they'll be able to live the horrors of this nightmare down."

"Night, Dad," Tom whispered, regarding his slumbering children. Ashely and Sam were snorers. Those two could easily sleep for the rest of the month, taking nourishment intravenously. That's how exhausted his sweet kids were. It was up to wiser, saner heads to help these kids of the post-virus ridden world to heal.

"Night, Son. And hey—take the advice you're hitting me over the head with. Go directly to your bunk. Don't get there by way of the bridge to check up on how things are running. When did _you_ sleep last?"

Trying his best not to have his retort sound testy, Tom claimed, "Longer than I can remember, which translates…I have no idea." He twisted around, giving his father a flippant facial expression. "Don't let the bed bugs bite."

"Bed bugs—ha!" Jed tossed at him and pulled the blanket over his head. A muffled, "Better those bugs than the virus!"

Upon leaving his immediate family, Tom, intent to retreat to his own bunk, got a surprise he was ill-prepared to handle in his present condition. Rachel waited for him, as if wanting to pounce. She couldn't wait, could no longer contain what she had wanted to do since having laid eyes on him after her rescue. She'd read in the captain's sea-loving eyes what he'd wanted to say, but couldn't at the time in front of the crowd. Their private feelings were not open for public display. But that look his face had borne, seeing her again…he could breathe easier, knowing that she was safe, secure, back with him. He'd had to keep going, doing what had to be done, keeping focused, but always at the back of his mind she had been there. He'd kept going for lots of reasons, for his kids most of all, but for her too. Rachel Scott had seeped into his heart and her medicine was potent.

She owed her safe return to Tex, but it was Tom whom she craved. Her heart clenching, Rachel dispensed with words despite Tom's startled, "Oh."

She'd caught him thoroughly off guard and it was a beautiful thing to witness.

Actions spoke louder; hers screamed. She body-slammed him against the bulkhead and poured every ounce of raw desire she felt for Tom into her ministrations. Her hands were all over him as they melded. Half pouting, she smiled, with lips crashing into his. The seasoned sailor heard her sigh against his mouth, her words, at least he thought she was saying something, were unintelligible.

They'd kissed before, utterly flooring Tex, who couldn't stop grumbling about the lip-lock used as a ruse, but there'd been business to take care of. This kiss lasted and lasted and lasted until, begrudgingly, they both needed to come up for air.

_She sure is something, the little wildcat_, he thought, enthralled, thoroughly bowled over.

"I missed you more," Rachel breathed into the side of his neck, the pulse in her own throbbing as well. Her heart beat harder when she noticed that his hand shook a bit when he cupped her cheek. She leaned into his gentle touch, stilling his hand's tremors.

He thawed, caught up in her passion. His voice matched hers, shaky. "You're here, and that's all that matters." He palmed the back of her small head, coaxing her to return her lips where they belonged, smothering his.

Reunited, and delirious, the enamored man and woman never saw Mike peeking at them from afar, and that was just as well.

Their destination was Norfolk to spearhead the current expedition, which entailed hunting up relatives who might have miraculously escaped contagion somehow. Tom firmly resolved that he was not letting her out of his sight, come what may.

She turned to go, but he stipulated, firmly holding her body in place against his, "Not just yet..."


	4. Chapter 4

This beautiful woman was made of strong stuff, and the way she spoke, so beautifully, even when fire flashed in her eyes when she got worked up, affected Tom profoundly. He nearly swallowed his tongue. _There's nothing to forgive__, _her exact, gentle words. She blamed him for nothing, not one thing. Was he omniscient? How could he have known Baltimore would be the crap pit Amy Granderson had made it? He had thought he'd left Rachel in good hands. Sadly, the hands he'd left her in had been evil incarnate. He stared straight ahead, tracing the waves of the bounding main with attentive eyes. There could be no more second guessing, not in these desperate times. He inhaled deeply, luxuriating in the briny deep's potent air. Home was where his kids were, back in Norfolk. But, home was here too, being at sea. It, calling to him, telling him that sojourning here was all right. This was his ship, his decks, his watch. His command.

It was incumbent that he finish what he'd started.

"I had no right..." Rachel gripped the railing of the main deck, steadying herself. She'd been indiscreet, reckless, out of control. She needed to keep herself in check with a ruthless hand. Her emotions unbridled did her a disservice. Already she feared that she'd gone too far, having made a complete ninny of herself. And what had gotten into her, unlacing Tex's boxing gloves? And what of Dr. Julius Hunter, locked down in that compound for six months? Seeing her mentor again by way of computer linkup had stirred several memories. Did she still feel the same about him? Or was it another sterling case of the object of her indiscretion being 'out of sight, out of mind?' What was she playing at, trying the shoes of a fickle female on for size? What was wrong with her?

"No...right? Huh?" He'd been lost in thought; her outburst pulled him right out. Tom turned to Rachel, glimpsing her with eyes that had widened in curiosity. "What's wrong?" He was becoming a whiz at reading her.

"Y-your grieving." Shame and pain welled up within her. "And there I was-throwing myself at you-" She cut her eyes away from the bemused look on Tom's face to the sea in Bermuda Triangle territory. Since his return to the Nathan James, he'd been aloof, as though anything they'd shared, as slight as it might have been, had gone up in smoke. She squeezed her eyes shut, reliving the impromptu tryst she had initialted in the p'way outside his billet. Overflowing with regret, Rachel sighed. His wife was dead. The man needed time and she needed, what? Ice cold water thrown in her face? "I embarrassed myself...and you."

"Impossible on both scores." Generous with his smile, he settled his branch-like arm upon her diminutive shoulders. As if rubbing shoulders with a conspirator, he bantered, "Last time I checked, we're professionals."

"I, for one, am a right professional twit," Rachel groused under her breath, eschewing how she'd behaved like a silly fool, starved for love. When she'd learned of Darien's death, what had made her think it was she he needed to turn to? What folly! What utter presumption, which saddened her. She could not blame him for losing all respect for her. She was nothing more than an opportunist, bent on plucking him up while he was mired in emotional upheaval. He was tough and resilient; he didn't need her to heal. As she continued to stand alongside of Tom, this man's man, whom any Italian sculptor would have modeled a marble masterpiece after, Rachel shuddered.

His hand tightened around her shoulders; a simple gesture she found comforting. "You're the best, Doc. And you know that, so don't go getting all squirrely on me. We've just begun to fight to get this world back on its feet again. This mission is far from over. I need you."

"Why did you come back?" Rachel muttered. She hesitated, not trusting her voice to hold steady. "I'd heard you were going to stay with your children."

"For a while there, I got a little squirrely." He held her tighter against himself, content to have her so close. "I've got good people around me. They turned my head around. You're so on that list."

Pride rang in her voice. "You are the face of the cure."

"That's all you,...Rachel." Though he was fairly crushing her arm, she never said a word. "Let's not make me out to be more than what I am. A husband, once." He adjusted his voice. "Still a father and a sailor."

"Unquestionably, you're all those things, not negating what I just said you are," Rachel stubbornly insisted, warming Tom's heart that beat with a passion borne of hers.

"And, you're..." Her doe-like eyes had him faltering. He raised a hand and eased his broad fingers through her soft hair so he had better access to those delightful eyes. Eventually, his hand slid down along the side of her winsome face. "Here, where you make everything about this nightmare bearable. I came back not just to finish what you began. I came back because I value you. You're important to me."

Heady, as though from strong drink, Rachel tackled her staggering emotions. "I'd have stayed ashore with you, if you had asked."

His emotions, running as high as hers, Tom smiled; he saw nothing but her. "I am asking that," he said with great solemnity. He was a serious man, a slave to responsibility. "Rachel," he softly breathed, his lips hardly moving, his heart tingling, "I'll say it again. I need you. Together, we're better, stronger. Apart, merely half of a whole."

She wasn't one to swoon, but she was mightily close. As her heart beat furiously, she was sure it was drowning out the sea's siren song, a song Tom never tired of. But, alas, Rachel was wrong about her heart stealing the sea's thunder. Sighing, she shivered against him while he slipped his arm around her waist. Resolved, he had no qualms about accepting whatever she thought was best; she was a winner. If he could hold on to her, he'd keep being one too.

A tear slipped from Rachel's eye, trickling down her cheek. Tom moistened the pad of his thumb with the escapee's trail. Her stuttering heart and air-starved lungs could not stop her from holding back. More of her tears flowed; more of Tom's fingers got wet. She gathered herself as the wind began to gather into a gale. "I...need you...too."

Holding hands tightly, they watched the waves grow steeper.

"A squall's building," Tom noted.

"We've had quite the number of them since we left Norfolk."

"Eight," Tom supplied.

"Hmmm."

"Let's go inside."

"Yes, let's," Rachel agreed, grasping his hand more firmly and bringing it up to hold close to her heart.


	5. Chapter 5

Already, several hours had passed since the captain and his teams had safely returned to the Nathan James. Reconnoitering the hospital ship with its valuable bio-lab, might well have been their final mission. Their scouting had flushed out 'unfriendlies,' on a decisive mission of their own. This latest foe had been after the cure and had killed indiscriminately to get it, which they didn't. Not content to leave the ship intact, they had intended to blow it to pieces. All credit had rightly gone to one of the newest members of the crew. Ravit Bivas, the diver and intelligence officer, who had saved them from getting blown to bits by this enemy's jerry-rigged explosives, really knew her stuff.

As Bivas' most recent admirer, the infatuated Lt. Carlton Burk had attested, "The woman's got skills." In love with his own jibing, he'd thrown in, "Mad, mad skills."

As Bivas had walked off with her back turned, she'd smiled.

If the lieutenant had seen her goofily smirking away, Burk would have feasted on that smile until the next tour of duty, at least.

Presently, Rachel was in her makeshift lab, consulting notes she had recorded previously. Legible notes? Ha! What she'd scribbled could have passed for eyeball-twisting chicken scratch easily. She had written those notations under duress, had been working feverishly to secure the cure. Her hand had shaken as her mind had swum. Small wonder her handwriting had suffered. With a sigh, Rachel gave another go at deciphering her scrawl.

It was nearing midnight and she was alone with her thoughts that were none too peaceful. Trying hard to relax, but having minimal success, she was a nervous wreck. It seemed as though relief from her present condition seemed impossible to achieve, going from bad to worse. These anxious feelings of hers and the constant worry for Tom's safety were wearing her down, 'to a frazzle,' as her mum used to say. It was crippling to think that her sweetheart of a mother was no more. Each mission that he went on was more perilous than the last, it seemed. How had Darien coped, knowing her lion-hearted husband was at the mercy of ruthless misfortune and ever-present dangers, inherent in his role as a naval commander? These times were the worst of the worst! Tom had awakened in her some very powerful emotions, which in turn were driving her crazy with concern for his self-preservation. Forced to admit just how much she cared for this intrepid man, Rachel was also forced to admit that placing himself in harm's way was the nature of his business, and a treacherous, bloody business it was.

She must summon strength and ride the tide of whatever came their way.

Truly miraculous it was that he'd managed to come off relatively unscathed, considering the perils he'd faced so far. And with each one he'd subsequently faced, her anxious concern for him had grown. _Nothing must happen to him_, her mind raced. _Nothing_. _Please. He's got to be all right, through it all. He's just got to be_...

Thankfully, he'd made it out alive yet again. How long could he keep beating the odds? She could not answer, nor did she wish to. _He'd better keep beating them_, she demanded of good fortune.

Lost in deep thought, she muttered, "I've come this far, feeling the way I do about him, I can't lose him now. I mustn't. As he's told me how important I've become to him, he's just as important to me. Perhaps more so. I've never felt freer. Not in my entire self-absorbed life. I'm not some uptight, bookish woman when we're together." Shutting her eyes, Rachel breathed heavily, picturing the greyish blond hulk of a man, exuding confidence regardless of where he went, in her mind's eye. Helplessly, she revisited the burning look he'd given her in the command center following his return. "I've fallen...in love," she tightly confessed, slowly opening her eyes, as serenity descended. _Don't muck it up_.

Tom's deep, sultry voice rose from behind her. He hadn't meant to sneak up on the unsuspecting, beautiful scientist, but when the boyishness in Tom piqued, he answered its knavish call. "Oh, yeah? That so? With? Someone I know?" His massive arms wrapped her up like she was his present.

Rachel melted in his embrace although he had ignited her feistiness. "Did I volunteer to be your latest target?"

"Nope." My how he made that 'p' pop.

As jauntily as he, Rachel willingly played along, squirming, only managing to turn her head to look him in his mesmerizing, super blues. "Since you revel in capturing whatever mark you set your sights on, what have you in store for defenseless me?" She languished in the strength of his bear hug, wrapping her much smaller arms around his trunk-like forearms. She leaned her head into his broad chest, akin to a bulwark. "Your reputation precedes you. I reckon I should consider myself fortunate indeed that you have elected to spare me as your prisoner, since you normally don't take them."

"I'm hoping you let me down easy," Tom teased, mugging shamelessly. While nuzzling her precious neck, he throatily pronounced over her tender skin, "You're gonna make Tex one happy man."

"Tex! Ooh-you. You're, you're _insufferable_," Rachel branded, laughing high-spiritedly as Tom drove her even balmier than she'd felt the time he couldn't stop making muscles while she had tried injecting him with the cure.

"Not Tex?" He sounded nonplussed, but his face, spewing sass, celebrated mirth. "But I thoug-"

"No."

"No?"

Rachel crossed her eyes in mock-frustration, tantalizing Tom. "Whom do you think? Here's a big hint: he stands on the bridge, surveying the sea as though he owns it. I have it on good authority that he cheats at blind man's bluff, on occasion."

"Okay... That's a risky game to play on a ship. Especially on topside."

With finality, she pitched, "And he is the only man..." Trailing off, Rachel got very still in Tom's arms, then turned in them. "Who triumphs in the face of cataclysmic impossibilities, never flinching." When she left off caressing his somewhat leathery cheek, she gently bestowed, "This would be _you_. Captain, my captain."

"I'm subtle when I flinch," he ribbed, then sobered quickly, having become a touch misty-eyed. Tom said, "Last time I looked, I wasn't wearing the red cape with the matching 's' tacked on. And if it weren't for the mighty big help from our friends, I-no, we'd-be dead in the water."

"You don't need the trappings of the man of steel. You are what you are, and more."

He kissed her soundly until she whimpered, a touching, haunting sound, and he chuckled deep within his throat. He'd never tire of the taste of this shapely force of nature. Was it his imagination, or was this intriguing beauty glowing?

"Tex indeed," Rachel scoffed.

"Hey, what do you want from Superman?"

"More of the same," Rachel demanded, hooking his head so his lips richly became her prisoners this time around. Before she captured them she uttered a hint wistfully, "Oh, if only you had his super powers, to keep you safe..."

"Kryptonite," Tom reminded her, snickering. "You and it have a lot in common." He weighed the weight of his next words, judging their worth along with their inevitable effect on the course of their relationship. He could say them now, meaning them to the last syllable. She deserved them; he sensed her longing for him to utter them. He wouldn't keep her waiting any longer. "I love you too." Planting kisses upon the crown of her head, Tom deliberately breathed, "Rach."


	6. Chapter 6

The enemies who had waged war on them aboard the Solace had a sub. How they had used it, taking out labs scattered throughout the continental United States, was devastating. Two missiles, courtesy the Nathan James, had found their marks. The remainder of naval firepower expended never eradicated the sub's missiles. Had the personnel affected by enemy fire made it out in time before they'd come under attack? Tom squelched the thought of so many dedicated, talented people being wiped off the face of the earth. Troubles were doubling down. Was humanity destined to never catch another break as long as x factors like this current nemesis existed? There never seemed to be a moment's rest nowadays; when it rained it always poured down in buckets.

Monsoons of travail all over the world.

Tom had tried being delicate about the matter, but Rachel saw through his soft-soaping, his ploy. He didn't have to do that for her. What, had the strong-willed, paleo-microbiologist suddenly morphed into, a powderpuff?

"I seem to be continuously asking you this question, which by now you must deem absurdly trite."

Tom shifted in his chair at the computer, reticent, following the discouraging discussion they'd just had. His forlorn demeanor weighed heavily on him. "That's new coming from you. You're never trite." His throat constricted.

"What's bothering you?" Rachel had been about to leave his office, but the demoralized look he wore stopped her cold. 'Superman' wasn't looking all too super right now. She glided across the space that separated them and chose to sit on the edge of his desk, inches from his legs he had let fall slack. When Tom slumped, it was as unnatural as an ethereal ballerina limping across a stage, holding her aching back, instead of leaping all over it, as though she had wings.

His tough mask dipped momentarily, which allowed his true feelings to bleed through. He regarded her intently, reveling in her presence, but shrinking from it too. He'd stopped her from going, not entirely his intention, but her wanting to stay prompted his barrage: "What if those sick mongrels, with their dirty hands on the triggers, decide to take out more installations on U.S. soil? And after that, food repositories? Health care facilities? And whatever's left they think will give them the upper hand? What if these 'Chosen' losers want to bring the U.S. to its knees? Bring it down the way they did Europe?" His head went heavy and his sight grew dim. He'd already lost Darien. What if Ash and Sammy succumbed not to viral plague, but one of another more sinister kind, _human monstrosity_?

The faces of his precious children effortlessly loomed, forcing his hand to shield his eyes from Rachel, desperation responsible for the reinforcement of tears strengthened what already flowed from his eyes.

She rose from the desk, all but lunging for him, dropping to a crouch, close to his left thigh. Not speaking, she contemplated Tom, continuing to gaze upon her modest hero, suffering. She placed both of her capable hands upon his leg, keeping silent, waiting for his emotional episode to pass. For quite some time, they rode out the storm in quietude, the stillness, comforting in itself.

Once his trembling subsided, Tom voiced, "I made a mistake…"

"And why is that admission uniquely yours to claim? I've made scads. Many times over." Sounding thoughtful, she invited, "How must I help?"

To Rachel's surprise, his fingers entwined with hers, allowing him a firm grasp of her hand. Applying additional pressure to her hand, calling his legs to attention while straightening up in his chair, Tom, not saying a word, maneuvered her unto his lap. "Consider this a start." He braced her against his chest, possessively cupping her face with his broad hand. She noticed its discernible tremor, nestled his hand within her indulgent grasp.

"I consider this a godsend." She was curled up like a kitten, languishing in the arms of the man she thought needed soothing. How often had it been that he'd been the one making her feel at home with him?

"The biggest mistake I made," he whispered, as though bushwhackers had infiltrated his office bent on settling an old score. "I left my babies behind. Like I left you in Avocet. What was I thinking!"

Rachel centered her index finger over his fast-moving lips, stilling them. _Oh, no he doesn't. Not again_, she swore. Insistence goaded her on. "You did not leave them behind, love." A flicker of a smile ghosted his face and Tom kissed her forehead. She went on, as focused as ever. "You entrusted them to your father for safekeeping." Her soft tone undulated in his ears. "Of course you realize, nowhere, unless you count Mount Everest, is safe in this world turned upside down."

"What if I lose my kids?" Tom throatily wheezed. "They die in a missile attack because I decided I had to be out here, keepi—"

"Keeping them safe from villains like the ones using that sub for their evil designs." She smoothed down his hair as though he'd suddenly transformed into a panicked four-year-old. "Think if they were here. No pun intended, but they'd be in the same boat as we, with hearts up their throats, sweating it out. Fervently hoping the 'Chosen' won't sink us. Having that on our mind along with all your other concerns. Promise me you won't keep second guessing yourself like this. You've made the right call. It's what you do—make right calls, which seems to be your strong suit." Her hand, welded to his hand, squeezed his hard. "Unlike Superman, you can't be in two places at once."

Tom thought hard about that and the way she'd said it. "Wait, since when could the 'man of steel' be in two places at the same time?" He was up to his eyeballs in mystification.

Staidly, Rachel confirmed, "Not up on your Superman lore are you, I see."

"I read every D.C. comic I could get my hands on," Tom boasted, "as soon as I could read. By Sam's age, I was a veteran."

He had sounded exceptionally young just then.

"Well, poppet, you must be familiar with the phenomenon, which was explained once in one of those comics."

"And you know this because?"

Equally as proud, she avowed, "I read them too. If there's one thing to be learned from those comics, or any product of make-believe, it's that fictional characters can do anything writers want them to do."

"Touche, _Colonel_, _Doctor Samantha Carter_."

"You do honor me, sir."

That scored Rachel another tender kiss to her forehead. "A brilliant scientific mind with strong leadership and combat-handling abilities…" What a coup it would be having those guys here, fighting along with the crew. _Go Teal'c_!

"Stargate fan too?" Rachel poked, an infectious smile working her face.

Tom's blue eyes smoldered in keen delight. "Yeah. SG-1 and Atlantis. And you're so right. I used to, well, practically howl at the T.V. with that same idea. If the writer was with them, the team couldn't lose."

"So much for suspending disbelief." Nodding in approval, Rachel succinctly confirmed, "The odd bits we have in common are…are…"

"Perfect." Before he enfolded her in his arms, his intent inexorably clear, he said, chortling, "Like you."

"I was going to say astounding."

Grinning to beat the band, Tom rejoined, "That too."

"You're not to worry so much. Is that clear?" Rachel imposed, easing her fingers through his short-cropped hair. "Or if that's unfeasible, at least share it with me. The trouble we share shall be halved."

"Aye, aye, Rach." Tom teared up again, but having Rachel swipe at his tears made him smile.


	7. Chapter 7

Was the honeymoon over? Had one ever truly begun?

The way he'd slammed the log book down on the situation table in contempt, glaring at her as though she were the cause of all his problems, had been as though he'd punched her in the gut. His frustration mixed with fury had oozed from every pore. The numerous tender moments they'd shared, eradicated in one fell swoop. Rachel still saw the anger entrenched in his brutal eyes, eyes that had glowered at her as if she were the densest woman who lived. And the most vexing.

"_All_ those labs were destroyed—what part of _all_ don't you understand! _No one_ escaped!"

She had half-expected him to tack on: _'You dummy.'_

The gloves were off. He was on a mission now, out for Immune blood...

Where had his empathy and compassion gone? She wasn't the enemy. The venomous look he'd inflicted on her made her shudder again as she tried to control her hurt and her own anger. Thinking more calmly about the confrontation in this setting, in her quarters, she reflected on his outlay of ire. He hated what the phantom sub and its crew of Immunes had done. Rachel's campaign now seemed dwarfed by their infamy. True, she and Tom had disagreed before, many a time. This time, it felt different; the captain had been livid, bordering on apoplectic, having tried to handle his rage, barely. He had a personal ax to grind and Rachel had become invisible.

Didn't she matter to him anymore? Had the military autocrat within him gained the upper hand, imprisoning the reasonable, patient man she had feelings for? He wasn't listening to anyone but himself. What an impeding mode it was, like conversing with a wall. He alone had decided the mission was changed. They should have been traveling to Dr. Hunter's lab in an attempt to salvage any useable data from the facility. The captain's rank granted him the right to command as he saw fit, but morally, he'd run aground. Going after greater knowledge of the cure's dispersal to the masses far outweighed going after elusive renegades.

Tom's scornful demeanor dictated otherwise. Though not a usurper, telling him what to do, or what not to do, Rachel wasn't going to get her way, not this time. He was pulling rank. She wasn't in charge; he was.

The XO, among others, was on her side. Mike believed that Tom was fixated on settling a score, as did the Master Chief. The sub's captain had bested them; Chandler wouldn't rest until he evened the score. But tit-for-tat was worthless in this scenario. They should avoid the sub, staying well under its radar to keep afloat, but continue with the true mission—saving scores of lives. Dr. Scott was right. She didn't want to believe that Tom could be so shortsighted, but that appeared to be true. Sadly, the driven man, the man she was effortlessly losing herself in, had lost his way. The war to be won was that of championing the cure's advancement, the sole mission that trumped personal vendettas, fancies or whims.

Alisha had warned her, had confessed that viewing the grisly uplink would not be easy. The lieutenant's understatement hadn't cushioned the blow. Off-camera, Dr. Julius Hunter had met his end at the hand of a parasite. The _Nathan James'_ contingency was here at the violated lab, absorbing the aftermath of the savagery. It was a page straight out of monstrosity, full force. The attackers had left the body of her bloodied mentor, a virtuoso in his singular right, to rot out in the open, along with the bodies of other brilliant ones cut down. The spectacle of this sheer madness made Rachel sick. Under her breath, she mumbled, "_The carnage, what bloody waste." _Tears welled up and glazed her volatile eyes. Her mind numb, she stood stone still, studying Julius' face, its surreal death mask, unable to accept that he was no more. The burning desire for vengeance writhed through her. This mortal coil was too much to bear. Bereft, left to mourn these untimely losses as if she were the only person in the room, Rachel sobbed openly.

Tom regarded her, not moving, barely breathing, the muscles in either side of his jaw rippling. He gripped his weapon tighter, visualizing what his team would have done to The Immunes if they'd been here to greet them instead of these poor defenseless scientific researchers. There was no data to recover, only the wreckage those fiends had left behind. He thought back, regretting how he'd been with Rachel over the course of these several days. He'd changed; she hadn't. She was still as beautiful, purposeful and committed as ever, committed to him and their mission. He'd dropped the ball, treating her like contagion, something to be avoided. Now, he was at a loss how to make it up to her. He could say he was sorry, but deep down he wasn't, not for making the call he'd made. He was wrong having treated her so poorly. Taking this massacre in lent him some justification. This situation demanded a hard-core military response. The horrific tableaux before them was proof positive that The Immunes aboard that sub must be hunted and expunged.

Still, what had gotten into him, chucking sand, as it were, in Rachel's eyes? Eyes he'd kill for to see them beam at him. Tom, submerged in private thought, missed Rachel's moving off into Dr. Hunter's ancillary lab. Electronic data no longer existed, yet, Rachel was thankful that the clods had not erased Julius' formulas and configurations from the whiteboards. With camera in hand, she snapped away; she must have taken at least a dozen shots by now. The more she took, the more aggressive she felt. _Take that, you blackguards. His death is not in vain_!_ His brilliance shall prevail!_

_Click-click-click_… She muttered names of compounds and by-products as she aimed and shot. It dawned on her how much she preferred taking snapshots instead of firing a gun. Before taking her last photo, Rachel sensed someone stood behind her. The back of her neck prickled and her shoulders stiffened when who it was softly cleared his throat. He must have derived inordinate pleasure getting the drop on her. He did it so often, Rachel mused. She slapped on an impassive face, about-facing, holding her shoulders as stiffly as he held his.

They faced each other as though squaring off. Neither spoke right away, and it was as though Tom had taken up the disconcerting habit of boring into her eyeballs with his. Her lower lip quivered, ever so slightly, and she blamed herself for his having this effect on her. He could be the meaning of intimidating. Why was he being like this? Here she was, really falling for this hard-nosed, straight arrow Navy guy and he was trashing the meaningful rapport that had evolved between them. Good lord, he could be so _stroppy_ sometimes. He wasn't the only one who could push buttons.

Her tone like lead, Rachel stood up to him as though she had become the indisputable Commander-in-Chief suddenly. Was that the faintest hint of a smile, she thought? Was that what she wanted to believe, loath to surrender what they had begun to have? Her lips pursed, she thought, _didn't think so_. _Tom Chandler, I have a mission for you. You should relish it. It's what you've wanted to do since the discovery of that infernal sub._ Pronouncing each word distinctly, not batting an eye, she ordered, "When you find them, _kill them_…"

_Quench your bloodlust…and mine._

Tom set the assault weapon down and was at her in less than a second flat, his granite façade fractured. As eagerly as gulping down cold water on a sweltering day, she filled his arms. He'd missed her; she was where she belonged. He knew that, the way he knew every square inch of the _Nathan James_. "Whatever _you_ want."

"This," Rachel said, sighing, feeling her heart pound like a hammer battering her ribcage. She hissed, "I want _this_…" With abandon, her hands latched onto the sides of his head, reeling Tom in. He succumbed to her demands, his lips devouring hers, tongues dueling like swordsmen, as mouth adhered to mouth. She managed to catch a breath, hissing a second time, "And you, coming back to me safely, as ever."

"You're with me, Rach. Wherever I go, you go. In here." He guided her hand to his heart's location. "Locked inside."

"As you are within mine." Though this wasn't the time, nor place to lose themselves in each other, it did feel right, supremely right. Reluctantly removing her arms from around him, as he did the same with his from around her, she smiled as a beatific smile graced his face.

"This isn't a news bulletin. I can be a real ass sometimes. As stubborn and as ornery as they come."

Close enough to an apology, which she gladly accepted. "Quite the pair we are."

"Inseparable. Come hell, or high water."

"High water I can take. It's the hell I'm having trouble with."

More to himself than to her, he murmured, "Too much has happened, too quickly. Too much to handle for just one lone ship...and so much tragedy."

"But you're not alone in this. I'm here to help all I can."

He hung his head, struggling to compose himself. "I miss her so much..."

Rachel remained still, keeping vigil. Pity parties were not her thing, but her heart went out to him. She sensed there was much he wasn't telling her about what he was going through. When he was ready, he wouldn't hold back. She too wrestled with inner beasts. "You'll never stop missing her, as it should be. She'd want you to go on, wouldn't she?" _Keep calm and carry on_. There was a lot to be said for the Anglo mindset.

Nodding, Tom studied Rachel's sympathetic face, then took her hand. "She would. I can't believe she's gone."

"Will you never stop torturing yourself?"

"I don't know," Tom replied, deflated.

A change of subject was needed. "I should be going with you to study these people, comparing their DNA against Bertrise's."

"Not a chance. Not on this." Tom sighed heavily. This would not be a field trip. They were going in like S.W.A.T., Navy style. "You know it isn't wise. We don't know what we'll be going up against stateside. Aside from you being the only one left to deal with the cure, I can't risk losing you for highly personal reasons. _Know_ _that_."

Nodding, Rachel admitted, "I know you'd better not get killed. _Know that_. I wish I could be in two places at the same time."

"I bet. Double trouble."

"Do what?" His mood swings were giving her whiplash. With one of her attractive eyebrows expressively raised, she stared him down as if ready to take him on, hand-to-hand. How could he be infuriating and adorable at the same time?

"What I meant to say was, 'double teaming,' as in getting twice the experimentation and all the other important things you do, done."

"Nice save. Calculated, but stellar."

"There you go, doing that thing you do."

"What thing?" Rachel needled, meshing her fingers with those of his right hand.

"That thing with your eyes that get me in all kinds of trouble." Controlling her eye rolling had become a true battle, of late. Tom groaned, but it was thoroughly playful. They didn't have much time before the forced separation. Soon enough, his men would be approaching to break up their cozy tete-a-tete. Time wasn't on their side. Hadn't been since the clock had placed them on the wrong side of the Red Flu outbreak. Remembering the remnants of a free-wheeling conversation they'd had not long ago along the same lines, he uncorked, "Isn't that right, Superwoman?"

She returned his playfulness, scoffing, "Don't you mean Supergirl?" Rachel took a steadying breath, drinking in Tom's present disposition. Seamlessly, their banter had fallen back into place. It was getting so she couldn't do without it and its return told her they were going to be just fine.

Provided they made it through this latest turmoil.

Tom laughed, the far corners of his eyes crinkling as they did, whenever the laughter was true. He reclaimed his weapon Rachel picked up to give him. "You're both." He rested the assault rifle against his leg so he could take her hand into both of his. He brought it to his lips and winking, promised, "See you when I get back."

"You'd better…"

"Sir…" Lt. Carlton Burk deferentially appeared in the doorway. He couldn't help think, stumbling upon them cuddling, that the course of _toujours l'amour_ had some pretty quirky convolutions aboard this boat with some highly surprising players. The captain and the doc, go figure. Would Bivas ever give him the time of day the way Rachel reciprocated Chandler's overtures? The guy had lost his wife, missing her like crazy, sure. But there was more going on here than rebound action. These two, although they thought they were doing a great job keeping their 'thing' under wraps, _right_, were the talk of the battleship. Some mighty spicy talk, toned down when certain ears were in earshot. As Carlton turned away, respecting their privacy, he contemplated if any potential existed for his getting serious with Ravit. She had no way of knowing that she was his kind of woman unless he came out and told her. Redirecting his train of thought, Burk turned in the doorway, mindful about keeping things moving. "Sir, it's time."


	8. Chapter 8

The more Tom thought about the idea, the more it made sense. To move her off the ship made perfect sense. If she died, so did the cure. She was its discoverer, the undisputed knower of what made it tick. Neils, the so-called patient zero, was a charlatan as far as Chandler was concerned. He was venal, evil, after what Danny had told him about the teddy bear debacle he had tried to perpetrate.

Really, who else out there in this calamity-ridden world was alive, possessing the same knowledge as their resident lady genius?

For all they knew, there was no one. Even supposing that someone else, perhaps a team of scientists, had made similar breakthroughs. That was moot. The people on this ship knew nothing of their existence, might never know. Rachel's mentor and his colleagues were history. The scientists of those bombed labs were gone. Who was to say there were others? Tom was in no position to guess. Having Rachel aboard as things stood, worried him constantly now. She had to go. His personal mission was keeping her safe. Worrying about her had become his private plague.

He would not alter his position, nor was he going to bring his state of mind to her attention. By this time, he knew her and she would fight tooth and nail against the enforced separation. She raised Cain when they disagreed, raising much of his own. He'd be the one to put his foot down harder this time. Burk, Bivas and Wolf, the brass tacks trio, might have to haul her lovely derriere, bound and gagged if necessary. But she was going, getting the helo off his ship. Protecting his prize, was right up there with obliterating the sub, disseminating the cure and…

Had he mentally ticked off knocking out the sub? Priority number one and number two were neck-and-neck. Taking the sub out would bring Rachel back.

Up from the CIC, he waited for her to report to him in his stateroom. His thoughts kept pace with his pulse, which raced, as he ran over what they'd accomplished ashore as a whole. They'd gone up against impossible odds, losing no one. That in itself was a great accomplishment. They had also captured two unwilling guests. Neils was putting in a repeat appearance. The other was now the new President of currently, 'The Disunited States,' Secretary Jeffrey Michener, whom they'd plucked from the manipulative clutches of Sean and Ned Ramsey and their henchmen. Irritable, Michener was resting uncomfortably in a small hold. They had offered him food, but, as defiant as he was, he was childishly staging a hunger strike. Soundly, he cursed out each visitor, who had paid him a visit, in no way thankful for having been rescued. Sullenly he demanded that they return him so he could rejoin the ragtag band of schemers.

"Not gonna happen," Chandler vowed and had posted two guards to keep tabs on the disoriented malcontent. The man seemed to be going through some form of freaky withdrawal. Had they drugged him, maybe administered a hallucinogenic? His mind seemed blown. Fearing that the man might attempt suicide, his wrists had been bound.

As Tom contemplated, returning to how much Mike Slattery and Hugh Jeter, his right and left hand men, opposed the idea of jettisoning Dr. Scott, there was light rapping on his door. It was she, none other than. He knew the softness of her touch by heart. The XO and the Master Chief were adamant about her being safer, remaining here. Why expose her to untold dangers lurking on land? His argument was: 'She's the most valuable person in the world. And you want to play fast and loose with her life, when she holds countless number of lives in her hands? Nothing doing. I know what's best for her.' His life hung in the balance on a philosophical plane; she ruled his heart, his mind, its inner workings. "I don't think so," he had fussed at them.

Mike and Hugh had let up, knowing full well that to keep going at him about it would make him just that more ornery. At the moment, they weren't going anywhere. The sub could nail them if they moved away from the mouth of the James River. This unique haven afforded nondisclosure. Their position was relatively secure, until they figured out their next move. Which would be entirely determined by what the sub did next.

"Come in, Rachel." Upon entering, he noticed right away how ever so slightly haggard and drawn she appeared. Sleep was a luxury none of them ever got sufficiently. He kept the string of bad words his brain rattled off to himself. He was a sailor and he'd been drunk a number of times; he could spew lots of bad words. Frowning a little, Tom continued his reticence until he invited her to sit.

Wide-eyed, Rachel obediently took him at his words, taking the seat at the head of his desk. His stiff bearing prompted her to cross her arms across her chest. His demeanor went against the grain of less tense times they'd shared. Before she realized what she was saying, his name dropped from her mouth. "Tom…" His name in her ears made her trail off. Why was it 'Captain,' one moment, then 'Tom' the next? The familiarity and the reserved underscored the fluctuating nature of their relationship, at best. "I have bad news."

Good news, even an advent of anything positive, had stagnated for too long a time. Tom sighed heavily. "What now?" The strong glare was not aimed at her, being the bearer of more bad news. He was angry at this entire misbegotten fiasco of a ruined world. Softening his tone, he began again, "How bad is it?"

"The worst possible result for the model," she replied, sounding listless.

"Oh, goodie. Judging by how you sound, it's grim. Right? Okay, lay it on me."

She tried relaxing the muscles in her tight shoulders, but the tenseness of the situation made that impossible. Her neck was so stiff, it really hurt when she looked to the right. Her voice constricted, she began, "Sad to say the aerosolization of the cure isn't feasible at this stage. Perhaps it shall never meet with success."

Sighing, weary from so much stress, he questioned, "What's the problem?"

"If I knew that, Cap—Tom, the cure aerosolized mightn't be the failure it's proven to be thus far. Aerosolized, the cure loses potency too quickly. Spraying the infected masses would be pointless. An exercise in futility. I'm sorry."

"Never apologize for things way beyond your control."

"It's back to the drawing board. It could be I've overlooked a tertiary step critical to the viability of the delivery system."

"If there's anyone who can crack the nut…it's you…" Not to dismiss the importance of the dilemma, Tom changed tack in spite of Rachel's air of defeat. Hoping to be seamless, he began, "I have no right to demand this."

"Ah…demand. I think you love demanding things of me," Rachel sparred, an impish cast to her face. "You claim you have no right to," she brightly followed up, arching an eyebrow. She came forward in the seat, eyeing him like a mongoose eyeing a spellbound snake. "But I think in many ways, you claim that right. As though it's owed to you."

"Hey wait—"

"Hear me out, please. Thank you." Rachel left Tom dumbfounded as she pressed on, "You see, I already know about your whisking me off your ship by way of the Seahawk." She never relished his look of being floored so much. "My, my. You are surprised."

His brilliant lady doctor/researcher had him dead to rights. Who had told her? Mike? Hugh? Both of them at once? They would not do that. Then, how? If they had betrayed his confidence, Tom was at a loss whether to string them up in tandem later, or give them commendations.

Her knowledge saved him the trouble of breaking his intentions to her cold. "I'll rephrase. I'm asking you, as a personal favor. I've got to get you off this boat."

"Now, you're asking."

"Yes, because I've already overstepped too many boundaries with you."

Hiding her smile behind a hand, then lowering the hand in stages, Rachel retorted, "You did not cross a line alone, Tom. I've gone along willingly. Every decisive step of the way."

"So you know when I ask this of you it's because, and I can't say it enough, you're important. Not only valuable to this mission, but…" In his mind boomed, _'You mean more to me. More than I thought could be possible after I lost the one woman I thought knew me better than I knew myself. These many weeks have shown me Darien wasn't the only one. If it hadn't been for you, Rach, I would not have made it this far. You, here, has meant my survival…'_

That's what he wanted to say, but still his problematic mixed feelings held those intense sentiments back.

Briskly, he told her, "The last time we talked about this, we joked. This time, I'm not joking. I can't have you here where the strong possibility exists that you could die in the wreckage of the torpedoed Nathan James."

A gurgling sound, in her gullet, reached Tom's ears. Rachel modified her rounded posture, sitting up ramrod straight. "You could die too, and where would that leave me? Agonizing my loss ashore, as I watch this ship explode into flames? Having come to feel the way I do about you?" Rachel counterattacked, raising her voice with each breath. "You're just as important to me, Captain Thomas Chandler, Junior. If I knew your middle name, I'd use that too."

"Bryce. My middle name's Bryce," he admitted, surprised at his sudden shyness over how forthcoming he suddenly was.

"Might I submit…" Rachel knew he'd most likely shoot this idea down in flames, but she felt she had to propose it. "You come along. Let's go together as we wait out the machinations of the sub."

Baffled, as he shook his head with a stern face, he objected. "That isn't possible. I could never do that, not an option. I'm the CO."

"You've gone on many a mission, leaving your ship in the hands of others just as capable, Thomas _Bryce_." Her eyes locked with his would not let go. "You just came back from such an exploit. Or am I mistaking you for someone else?"

"You're a dirty fighter."

"We're not fighting. We're having a calm discussion."

Tom rolled his eyes, giving in, humoring her. "But if the Nathan James went down, heaven forbid, I, as the captain, must go down with my ship."

Scoffing, Rachel said, her voice silky soft, "Rubbish."

"Is not," Tom objected, sounding like a little boy. "It's the unwritten law of the seas. My ship sinks, I go with it."

"Utter rot. That hackneyed dictate belonged to the old lost world," Rachel rejoined with stubborn finality. If he wouldn't give an inch, neither would she. "Please," she mellowed, "just think about it? For me?"

"I've given you my answer."

_You are stubborner than a mule team of twenty_, Rachel thought, ratchetting up her patience. _And I love you so_… Sounding kittenish, she tried again. "You'd go down with the ship…does that mean you'd commit suicide? Fill your lungs up with water and perish?"

"I didn't say that," Tom mewled, feeling as though she had him over a barrel.

"Then what _are_ you saying?" Rachel stroked.

"I wouldn't die with the Nathan James, all right? I'd try to save others, and if I could find a way to survive, I would."

Feeling she had gained some ground, Rachel replied, "And what if I, who you admit is instrumental in saving the lives of others, need you to save me? Would you do it?"

Folding his hands atop his desk, he pierced her smug look. "In a heartbeat."

"Whether on the sea or dry land?" Her eyes smiled back, deeply into his. "That is what I'm asking. Won't you save me, Thomas Bryce?" Using his middle name sent chills down her spine; it had such a manly ring. The mystique enveloped her, bathed her in glorious warmth, like a hearth. His name, the whole thing, Thomas Bryce, was like describing what a fortress was to someone.

"Let me sleep on it?" he requested, never breaking eye contact. "I'll give you my answer in the morning."

"That's a wonderful idea," Rachel confirmed. "I accept."

"Know what would be more wonderful?" Tom enticed, swiftly lifting and lowering his eyebrows like the world's cheekiest wisenheimer. "Accept this too…"

She ate his swagger up. "What pray tell?" she enjoined, beginning to smirk as he was. His thoughts became more transparent with each day that passed.

"Catch forty winks with me?" he capped.

He made that outrageously tempting, being the attractive hunk he was, but Rachel knew better. That was his weariness and his desire to block out all the horrors talking. She would be his friend, his confidant, his lover, perhaps one day. But, tonight wasn't that day. She would not be his dalliance, his escapism. She rose from the navy-issue chair, smiled coyly as she headed for the hatch. "Allow me to sleep on _that_."

Remembering he had promised her anything, he sat speechless until he realized that he must get the last word in. "Sweet dreams. I hope mine are of you. 'Night."

"'Night, TB…"

As Tom studied her taking her time leaving, he hoarsely whispered: "'Night, Angel. I'll stay with you. I did give my word. How I feel about you won't let me take it back." He scrubbed the palm of his hand over his face. "Whatever you want…"

So, for Operation Deliver Dr. Scott From Destruction, Tom would replace Wolf. Sometimes in the line of duty, the lines blurred.

Not long after their 'discussion,' Tom, in his bunk, rolled onto his other side. Finally, sleep was claiming him, but before shutting his eyes, he muttered in the dark, "Maybe I should have asked her to have dinner with me first. She in something swank, elegant, like her. And me, in full navy dress. A real dinner." Nodding, he smiled. "Yeah..."


	9. Chapter 9

Pacing in her cabin, jonesing for a cup of tea, Rachel waited for him. Yes, a cup of Yorkshire Red tea would hit the spot. Sadly, there was no such heavenly blend of that caliber aboard the _N. James_. While she was indulging her fancy, she thought, why not go 'whole hog,' as the Americans would say. She'd have some clotted cream on her scones with her afternoon cream tea, along with strawberry jam. Her mouth watered, and with her eyes wide open, she transported herself to a time wherein England was not in shambles, along with the rest of the world. In all likelihood, she would not see her homeland anytime soon. If and when she did, what would she find? Her speculations overshadowed her thoughts of savory goodness.

Life as they'd known it was well and truly over, but sometimes, there were flashes of lightning caught in a bottle…

Still no Tom. He'd said he wanted to have a word with her, but hadn't elaborated. She didn't mind his tardiness, his not showing up as yet. She knew how busy he was, how more demanding life had become for him since bringing President Jeffrey Michener aboard. The poor man—the poor, shaken soul, who had tried to take his own life. Thankfully, his wounds had not been excessively deep, or he would have died, bleeding out profusely, where Tom had found him. Michener…Rachel shook her head, cradling it with her hands. So many tortured people left in the wake of the worldwide calamity. Her fingers glided into her mane and raked her hair as she continued to pace. Her hair had grown so long; she couldn't remember when her locks had last been cut. Did that matter? The demands aboard this ship left little time for pampering and primping, which she'd never been one for going overboard in that regard. Her mission wasn't seeing how alluring she could be. Currently, hers was to come up with the proper way to spread the cure, which might mean reinventing the cure. Perhaps aerosolization wasn't the way to go. That thought bit into her. Scrapping Julius' methodology was humbling, staggering. To think about beginning over bowled Rachel over.

Another disturbing notion bombarded her brain and she reeled for as many times since she had learned that Niels Sorensen, of all people, was back aboard. Although she saw him as the infamous, vainglorious patient-zero, who had thought to destroy the surviving population by the heinous use of Red Flu carrying Teddy Bears, she could use his help. Perhaps redeem himself, and that was a long stretch of an imagination, in the eyes of this crew. If he chose to cooperate; that was the bone of contention. If he chose not to, or sabotage her efforts, he'd get her vote to be tossed overboard to sharks.

So much to accomplish with so little time, Rachel huffed. She checked the time and still no Tom. She thought about slipping out of this robe. Underneath, she had on her nighties, which were nothing more than bra and panties, the last of her skivvies. Laundry was a systematic affair on this Navy vessel, done twice a week. The process involved the indelible marking of items, placing them in a large mesh laundry bag, marked with her name and her living space location. Her clothing was few, so there wasn't much to get mixed up. But she had marked her things well to insure that she'd see them again. Rachel preferred sorting out her own intimate apparel. No one might suspect that beneath her pedestrian attire of tanks, tees, jeans and sweats, she wore black, or white lacy numbers, an obscure indulgence.

At her door, there came a short tap, followed by a brief pause, followed by two staccato raps. She put bolting out for orange pekoe tea on hold. In a momentary quandary, Rachel was immobile, as though she had no idea where to start picking up after herself in the tight quarters. There was nothing to straighten up. She'd been writing a few preliminary notes of redirected research to herself in an effort to take her mind off Sorensen.

"Are you decent?" Tom jabbed, rattling her thoughts. On the other side of her door, he wore a very naughty grin. He loved asking her that when he stood at her door, waiting for her to let him in.

She would be once she settled the robe more securely around her body, removing all trace of lace for the captain's keen eyes. There wasn't much he missed, and for some racy examples of Victoria's Secret's finest, definitely not. Rachel's reflection dismayed the real thing, and had her snapping her hair into shipshape shape for her high ranking gentleman caller. Though Rachel sensed Tom's approval, regardless of how she was, or was not, put together, it wouldn't do for her hair looking a disheveled sight, as it had appeared hours earlier in the briefing room when they'd been discussing the induced coma Niels had been put in.

"Do you judge me not to be?" Rachel said with a beguiling twist.

"Are we talking your current state of undress, or moral character?"

Behind her door, purposely stalling before admitting him, she rallied, "Perhaps a montage of both." The door opened wide, she stood half-smiling, sizing him up, game to take him on. They exchanged that look frequently. "Ooh…you brought me tea."

"Indeed I did." He stepped into her cabin with a tray, a steaming mug, which looked to be one for ceremonious occasions, with a saucer underneath it, sitting atop the gleaming expanse of… Rachel blinked.

"Is that?"

"Is that what?" Tom furthered, paying strict attention to how awed she looked.

"Real?"

"What's real?"

"The tray, _mon capitan_," Rachel teased. The robe too big for her lithe body, slid off her shoulder, exposing an eyebrow-raising lace strap of her halter bra. There was a reason for the ill-fitting robe. It was Tom's; he'd lent it to her. Michener was benefitting from Chandler's generosity as well. The captain had given him several articles of his own clothing. Tom's broad grin was akin to stealing sunshine from ol' Sol itself with his eyes heavily on Rachel. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think it was actual silver."

Tom threw a saucy wink her way, which she graciously accepted. The grin on his face cracked broader. "You usually do know better, and you're right. It is silver. I broke it out because you more than deserve some pampering." Rachel looked Tom over pensively. Since Michener had come to be with them, the lion share of Tom's concern had been devoted to the newly-minted President. Then there was Sorenson's resurfacing, which Tom unquestionably knew was not to Rachel's liking. It went against his grain, having Rachel think she and her concerns had dropped on his priorities list. No, she hadn't slipped, maybe dipped for a brief while, but he was here with his offerings to let her know she hadn't slipped off his radar, certainly not completely. His attention might have to be divided, but not his heart. "Only the best for—"

"And! And!" She exclaimed the conjunction with such force, startling Tom, the cup on the tray rattled. Summarily impressed, Rachel couldn't take her eyes off of the raisin tea biscuits arranged on a separate plate. "Those look fresh!"

"They'd better be to your liking, or I'll make Culinary Specialist Second Class "Bacon" Cowley walk the plank," Tom vowed with consummate impulsivity.

"If you dare to force dear Bacon to do that," Rachel threatened, "there'll be no more of this…" She removed the tray from his hands, setting it down on the utilitarian sideboard.

"No more of what?" he asked, sounding street-tough. He looked ready for anything, but what he didn't expect was Rachel meshing her hands with his, drawing him down, looking him eye-to-eye.

"This…" She pecked him on the cheek, then laughed like a young girl as she pushed him away as though she was thoroughly through with him. Like a sprite, with her fast, jerky movements, the loose robe fluttered from her body, giving Tom more than a healthy bird's eye view of her fascinating curves. He wolf-whistled in his mind, thinking of her in ways not at all professional. But, the timing was off; he wouldn't make the same mistake again. No more off-color remarks. No more taking it as a given that they'd wind up together. He'd crossed the line a week ago, in his hitting her over the head with a brick sort of way, asking if she'd wanted to 'catch forty winks' with him. Four stars for subtlety, Mister, he'd derided himself. Shocker, that she'd never gotten back to him on that? Not. Why had he thought the caveman approach would work on her? He'd kept turning it over in his mind that he'd make that dinner date, but the asking had never materialized either. His cold feet had turned to ice.

Rachel tempted him in ways no other woman ever had. She had no idea. Good thing too. She would have hopped the next lifeboat off his ship.

So, here they were again. He, sweating like the sun was on his back, with this woman, who gave new meaning to a woman being stacked. What was he doing with her? She, who was wearing nothing but frilly, girlie-girl finery under the robe he'd given her that fit her like a tent.

Hadn't he had more than enough torture to date? This form of masochism had bent him way out of shape. Tongue-tied and cursing himself, Tom was stone-faced, had his mask locked in place, ashamed he'd devolved into a sailor on the loose on shore leave, who couldn't get his act together. He sure needed a break; they all did.

Covering herself up again, Rachel apologized, "I'm sorry."

"Yeah?" he quickly replied, huskily. "For what?" He was sure his eyes had suddenly grown too big for his face.

_You're sorry_, he lamented. _Rach, you'll never know how sorry I am. I can't tell you how sorry I am_. _I am one sorry_-

She spliced into his thoughts. "For flaunting my coquettishness."

"Don't. Don't think I don't notice and don't appreciate it. You know I like this side of you," he said sincerely, as uncomfortable as could be even though Rachel looked no surer of herself than he was of himself. The walls of her cabin were closing in. He had to get out of there before he made the biggest ass of himself to date. What kind of shadow dance was this that they did with each other? Why did it seem they were too skittish to latch on? Was holding on too tight so wrong? If wanting and loving Rachel were wrong, why couldn't he stop? He kept coming to the bridge, but stopped short of crossing. He couldn't pay the toll because the price was too high?

If they thought they were being honest with each other, it needed work. He'd never excelled at reading women, always sure they said one thing and meant another. Perhaps Rachel saw him only as her supporter, her protector. He would never be stingy in that regard. And that would be fine if that was really what she only wanted. But, he didn't know for sure if that was all he meant to her. Then the flip side of his feelings would kick in, by loving Rachel, he'd betray Darien, which was still how he felt. Perhaps he always would. He couldn't prevent her memory from looking over his shoulder, scrutinizing his feelings and attitudes concerning Rachel. He couldn't help but see Darien in the faces of the children they cherished. Tom was buckling under so many strains.

"Do you? Really? You're diffic—"

"I like it, I said." Sounding more gruff then, Tom ordered, "Sit. Have your tea, before it gets cold, and the biscuits. They're not warm, but they are good. I had one earlier."

"Did you now?" she followed up, all coy, seeing the troubled look flood back into his eyes, their color murky, presently like the sea.

"I did. Bacon insisted I try one out as a guinea pig before I fed you any."

Noting the change that had come over him, Rachel, extended her arm, thrusting questing fingers for him to take. "Join me for tea, please. Pull up a seat." He had been looking thinner, still fit and battle-ready, just not as hefty as when she'd first laid eyes on the husky military man. Much of that husk had been shed over these many weeks.

Again, the tempting quality of her soft voice hummed in his ears. Already shaking his head, he hedged, "I've gotta get back to Michener." He plucked up a biscuit and popped it into his mouth. Smacking his lips, he made a mental note to tell Bacon he was a culinary whiz. Half this baked good was butter, clearly tasted, melted in the mouth.

"You're going to him in the state you're in?"

"State? I'm in a state?" he bristled somewhat. "I'm not in a state." If one considered being visibly agitated not being in a state.

She rose daintily from the chair, placing herself squarely in front of him. "Your new President can keep." Cocking an eyebrow, she analyzed him as she would a new piece of data. Data came in all sizes. Her hands still holding his, she squeezed them so tightly, it amused Tom if she thought the little pressure she exerted was too much for him, even a little bit. He freed his hands, ignoring her effort to prevent him and cupped the base of her throat of that pretty little neck.

"Some things won't keep," Tom whispered, drawing her face closer to his.

"Agreed."

"This for starters."

"Tom—"

Seared, they embraced, squelching anything else there might have been to say. They gulped air, stroking each other feverishly as they devoured. The way they second guessed each other was laughable, but all too human. Tom's hand trailed down her perfect cheek. Dragging out the movement, he slipped a tremulous hand beneath the narrow confines of the robe, and fingered filigree that had never felt so fine. Withdrawal shone in their eyes with realization that it had been too long a time for their hearts. Being whole again was the most delicious feeling in this whole screwed over world.

When organizing words into a sentence was possible, Rachel inveigled, "What were we going to discuss?"

As sheepish as he could be, Tom formally asked, "Would you do me the honor of having dinner with me?"

"I'd love to," Rachel lavished.


	10. Chapter 10

In the back of her mind, she heard her mother's gentle voice..."Rachel, my girl...what have you done?"

Hopping up off the stool, Rachel looked about herself, squinting, a queer look in her eyes. Unconsciously, she began wringing her hands, offering her inquisitor, "I did what needed to be done. For the good of us all," she whispered in the silence of her lab, its lighting resembling neon, lurid in its intensity, at the moment.

"No, my girl. You've killed a man. That's what you've done," her mother's voice echoing in her head accused. "In cold blood."

"He isn't my first." Rachel bandied her defiant words.

"You killed in self-defense that first time, as I recall. Essentially, not the same thing. This time, you knew exactly what you were doing."

"Yes. I killed Niels in defense too. In defense of those who aren't immune, who had him to fear." Rachel thought back to when she'd been a child, having to face the death of her poor mum, a victim of malaria. Her father had firmly held the conviction that giving her medicine betrayed a lack of faith in God. Vehemently she flung into the air, curtly. "I'd do it again. He killed billions. Killed everyone I've loved—_those who remained of our family_, Julius, Michael too." His death had not been confirmed, but she suspected he too was another of patient zero's multitudes of victims. "He killed them all, purposely, because he could, not batting an eye. Because he mistakenly thought that by adding human DNA to the virus he'd save lives. I hate him with a hatred I've never felt before. I'd kill him again, and again. I said what I meant. People on this ship will sleep safer because of what _I've_ done. Had to do!"

"Luv, because you chose to kill the monster, as you see him, you've started down an unsavory path. In your fury, you well might become as you claim he was. Amoral. Even worse, perhaps. Completely without conscience."

"Nonsense. I despise that mutant, loathe him with a loathing that defies definition. I could _never_ become what he was!" Rachel lambasted, throwing her eyes to the spot where the miscreant had breathed his last, bleeding out through his orifices. Alone now in her lab with her rats, after the men guarding her had hauled Niels' dead body out, Rachel continued crossly, "I am no monster."

"Your hatred led you to become his judge and executioner. Many a monster has begun in the very same fashion."

"Mum," Rachel rumbled, bringing the back of her hand to her perspired, clammy forehead, "get out of my head." She plopped back down on the stool, feeling off-balance, teetering on the edge of that fine line between right and wrong.

Her mother's cerebral utterances persisted. "My poor, dear girl. What has happened to you? What shall become of you? You're not yourself. I daresay you haven't been for quite some time."

Rachel capped her ears with her hands and began shaking her head. "I have work to do!" To drown out this maddening voice.

"You have a confession to make. You lied to those naïve young men. The man's life you took did not die from an embolism. Your brilliance does not serve you well in this instance. They'll believe whatever you tell them because their knowledge pales in comparison with your genius. My, how superior of you, Machiavelli's sister. You'll lie to them all to their faces about his cause of death and they'll believe you because you're the eminent, altruistic, Doctor Scott. Always the good scout. Only this time, my girl, you weren't very good, nor humane. You've behaved indecently. Do what you must do now…tell the truth. Confess."

"Mum!" Rachel objected, clamping her hands harder against her ears. How to escape this diatribe? Even if she fled the lab, cut and ran to the ship's deck, she feared the chastising voice in her head. Relentlessly, it would not stop pummeling her, maniacal in its conviction.

"You weren't above using your sexuality to seduce your victim, were you?"

As if it would help, Rachel started humming loudly, trying as hard as she could to stifle her internal tormentor. Muzzle her browbeater. Without success.

Would her mother do this to her, if she were alive?

"Then, when he, nothing more than a misguided man, who might have thought he was helping mankind, succumbed to your tawdry feminine wiles, giving you the key that unlocked the secret, his fate was sealed. You begged off in revulsion. His entire being repugnant. Subhuman. As though if you granted him one kiss, you'd die of contamination. No, rather, it was _he_ who died. You used what he'd surrendered against him. He, a victim of your heartless vengeance. His brilliance led him to death. As your own might very well lead to yours. You were evil, and wicked. He'd done wrong, but you took it upon yourself to condemn and punish him. You were cruel, cold, calculating and—"

"Shut it!" Rachel railed madly in frustration, bolting up from the stool, which tipped over. "You're delusional. He tried to murder innocent children with laced teddy bears! He's a monster incarnate!" She began limping around in a ragged circle, the voice in her head merciless as justification fought off compunction. "Shut it!"

"No, Luv, I shan't do anything of the kind. You must embrace your wrongdoing. You've committed a heinous crime."

"You're wrong—wrong! Niels was ever so much more calculating than I could ever have been. I had the right to kill him! He was the monster—not I—not I! He's the world's worst mass murder! Hitler doesn't hold a candle to him!" Rachel bolted to one of the mice receptacles, bent down to peer at the spunky, spindly-tailed creatures. Her mouth dropped wide open and she gasped a small horrified squeak, when one mouse's face was Niels'. She blinked rapidly several times, desperate for smelling salts, and the miniature Niels face was gone. She backed away from the plastic cage, clutching the center of her chest, her head swimming. Her conscience was like a tornado, ripping through her brain, tearing any semblance of sanity to shreds.

Near to swooning, Rachel jerked herself to her full height. In lieu of the smelling salts, where was there booze on this floating asylum? She needed one, perhaps two, good belts to put her head right again. It occurred to her that she'd never been much of a drinker before setting foot on Tom Chandler's ship, never imbibing anything stronger than the soothing teas she loved so much for helping her to 'keep calm and carry on.'

_Tom, bringing me all those cups of teas_, Rachel reflected, her heart heavy. _And his sympathy for having to shoulder such a heavy burden_.

Having thought his name, she winced. Had she betrayed his trust, his taking it for granted that she always did the right thing? After the Vyerni, he'd warned her about not making rash decisions. Not consulting Tom, deciding on her own that Sorensen had to be put down, she'd done that again. Yet, how could he not have known that his desire she work with Sorensen would be torture? Was she going to lie to him too? She felt justified. If she told him the truth, would he turn on her, arrest her for murder, lock her up? Put her under guard, restricting her movements aboard ship? The masses would benefit from the cure because Sorensen's death made possible now. Surely, the love waking within him for her would not turn to hate. She hadn't committed cold-blooded murder. Had she? The reality was, she'd triumphed over ignorance. Rachel hushed the nagging voice in her head.

She knew she'd done the right thing. She was the avenger of all the deaths Niels had caused.

Mum's ethereal voice rippled through her mind…"Your total lack of remorse could ruin you. Confess your crime. Confess, confess, confess…"

Tell Tom? Would he fathom why she'd had to do it. Surely, he'd understand. They had an understanding of sorts, didn't they? Did he trust her judgment enough to accept what she'd done? Why all this soul searching? Why the necessity for justifying her actions? These people should be thanking her. She was the enlightened researcher, accountable to...

Once more, the maternal tone urged, "Confession is good for the soul, to save yours. Confess your crime, my girl..._confess_…"

Rachel crept to the mice again, opened one of their receptacles and seized one by its very thread-like tail. This mouse looked particularly feisty as Rachel held it by the tail, content to let it dangle. "You and your brethren have been privy to many things I've done here trying to salvage what's left of the human race. Let's just say, Niels, as many of your kind have done, sacrificed his life in the name of science." The mouse she held squeaked and Rachel smiled. _They might suspect_, she meditated, _but proving I did it will be a different matter entirely_.


	11. Chapter 11

"The misfortune is you had no idea what I was capable of…" Dr. Rachel Scott.

…

Numb did not do justice to the tangle of emotions strangling Chandler. With her back to him, Rachel marched out of the briefing room, his daggering looks showing her out. She had so much more to say, but his bearing alone read loud and clear that he was finished listening. When Tom closed the door after her, the bile in his throat stung. Struggling to control himself, he stood by what he'd told her. _You don't get to decide what's right_. He was losing the fight for control as all the while the awful trembling he saw in her body gnawed at him. _That's why we have codes_…

There were codes, and then there was the gamut of human emotions, invariably getting in the way. Because the old world was defunct, did that suggest decency and moral values no longer applied?

Dr. Scott, now a prisoner aboard this vessel, in the weeks that followed Chandler's condemnation, was a shadow of her former, gritty self. She had done what she'd done and the captain of the _Nathan James_, had felt duty-bound to show her who was boss. The Navy, a la Tom Bryce Chandler. Her world was one of confinement, isolation, reflection. She'd never seen this coming. Working in the makeshift lab was her strength, that hadn't changed. Under guard, she spent hours in there still, perfecting what the ruined masses needed, not a word of complaint. Her mission was to save the innocents, not blight them, as Sorensen had sought. Escorted back to her cabin, and even the head, Rachel had settled into the monotony. Her meals were brought to her. The only allowance granted was having access to the gym, under the watchful eye of an appointed sentinel. She couldn't exercise in her glove box of a cabin. If she lacked physical activity, how could she be expected to maintain mental fitness? Begrudgingly, the captain had given his permission.

Nearly three weeks into her captivity, Tex paid her jailer a visit after Jeter, Slattery and Michener exited the briefing room.

"Got a minute? Can we talk?"

Chandler glanced up from some printouts that had been the topic of lively discussion. In the habit of not smiling of late, he invited, "What's on your mind?"

The laid-back caller gestured at a seat and Tom nodded. Seating himself, Tex began the build-up. "How's the war going?"

Before answering, Tom sighed, a weighty, weary sound. "Never-ending." He pinched the bridge of his nose. The war was not merely external. The one raging within himself was taking more of a toll than the visible one.

"Speaking of 'never-ending,'" Tex clumsily segued, "rumor has it Bacon's developing a complex."

"Come again?" Tom said, not following.

"Trays of food sent to the **_good_** doctor come back untouched." Tex hammered, "She's not eating. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. Sips of water, that's it."

He wasn't aware and the fact he wasn't rippled through him. Since the rift, he had made a point of not seeing her, his avoidance purposely. When seeing her working out, he'd wait until she finished before going into the gym, not only to deflect the awkwardness, but also, his voracious emotions, eating him alive. She'd been wrong. He'd made his decision, but, especially in the wee hours of the watch, he'd toss and turn, unable to still the wrenching in his gut. He missed her, missed everything about her, most of all her innate intelligence. If he were to go to her cabin, like old times, would that be an admission that he'd made the wrong decision? She was so unworthy of leniency? Unforgivable?

"Did you hear what I said?" Tex drubbed.

"Yeah, I heard you," Tom acknowledged gutturally, scowling, the lines in his face deep.

"She can't go on like this. She's getting weak. Losing her sense of being connected. We both know she doesn't deserve what she's going through. If it weren't for her, none of us would be here." He came forward in the chair, his elbows poised on his knees. "You've got to try reaching her. I've tried." Disappointment radiated from him. "I'm not getting through."

"What do you want me to do? Have her tied up and force fed?" Tom lashed out. "Stick an IV in her arm?"

"No, Mister Captain, _Sir_." Tex had such a whimsical way of furrowing his forehead with eyebrows stretched to the ceiling. "Talk to her."

Stiffly, Tom sat back, pushing the printouts away. "I've got nothing to say."

"Still—you've got nothing to say. Man, you're not making any sense," Tex bucked.

"I'm not?"

"Nope. I bet if you managed to give her a smile, she'd be downing a piece of buttered toast in no seconds flat."

Grumbling, Tom needled Tex with cold, hard eyes. "I've got nothing to say to her. As soon as it's possible, she'll stand trial for what she did. And receive the punishment fitting the crime."

Seeing red, Tex fired, "You are one piece of solid, messed-up work, Chandler. She's in trouble."

"You bet she is. She should have thought about that before she offed Sorensen."

"She felt justified after all the deaths he caused."

"It wasn't up to her to stage his execution. She took matters into her own hands and that was wrong of her."

Tex wasn't going head-to-head with Chandler on this. Instead, he summed it up. "You've really changed."

"I am who I've always been. A commander in the Navy."

"Who couldn't care less about what I've said."

He wasn't about to admit it to the smitten man that he cared more than he should. "I know why you're here."

"Enlighten me."

"You're so in love with her—"

"Ha! I'm not the only one…" Seeing unwitting confirmation in the captain's bitter eyes, Tex shrugged. "Easy to love ain't she? We can't help ourselves."

Tom looked as if he'd been pole-axed and gagging at once. Quickly regaining his wits, he angrily rasped, "I'm not about to condone murder. Navy regs are clear. You're too blind to see that what she did is an abomination."

"I'm not asking ya that. Just cut her some slack. She's going through hell. She ain't the enemy." The private military contractor witnessed the wistfulness Tom's face harbored. Tex wagged his head in conjunction with rolling his soulful, twinkling eyes. _Tommy, boy, you got it badder than me_, _and right now that ain't good for her_. "You came down on her like a lead-lined sack of bricks. Like _she _was the plague. Rachel deserves to see the light of day once in a while. Where's your heart?" He rose, sidling his way over to the door. One of many salient things about Tex, he knew when it was time to go. "Give the word. Allow her to be topside at least once before we reach that next port. If you come across some shackles, she can wear 'em while she's above decks."

Tom itched to bark: _Get off my back_! Far from that being a professional response. Marshalling self-control, but cutting his eyes at the civilian, he snapped, "Maybe I should have you guard her so she can walk all over you the way she thought she could do with me. When she tries, go Gitmo on her. Maybe you won't have the same problem."

He pointed at Tom. "Hey, that was good. Good and ugly." Shaking his head in disbelief and chuckling, Tex tempered, "Denial is still a river in Egypt. Swim out of it. Anytime now would be fine. Oh…" Before ducking out of sight, he bade, "And have a nice day." Just for kicks before he disappeared, he tossed in, "If you can."

Balling his hands into tight fists, Tom drove them into the desktop, the bulk of Tex's guidance harassing him. Tom's deliberation did an about-face then, as the meat of what Nolan had said sank in.

"_Easy to love ain't she_?"

To himself, Tom mumbled, "In spite of what she did, I do love her. I hate what she did, but I love her. Have, ever since she came aboard that Russian ship to save my…well, _both _our sorry—"

"Captain."

"Yes."

"I was told I'd find you here." Bertrise was unaccustomed to this area, but somehow she'd found her way after so many wrong twists and turns. Miller had been very helpful when she'd expressed the desire to speak with the commander and he'd known about the timing and whereabouts of the higher ups' important conference.

"Come in," Tom invited, trying to sound approachable, especially on the tail of the rollercoaster ride conversation with Tex. The young Jamaican ventured further inside the large room. As though there were an invisible boundary, she stopped far short of the imposing desk. The man seated at it, even more imposing. Prompting her to come nearer, he asked, "What's on your mind?"

Not wishing to be here any longer than necessary. Here only because the woman she held so dearly on this ship was in a very bad way, Bertrise immediately addressed, "Captain, Doctor Scott is not well. I fear for her. She is not the same. So unhappy. When we are together, she hardly speaks. And never laughs. She is looking sick. I don't think she cares about what happens to her anymore."

"I've heard she isn't eating."

"I don't think she is."

Tom stood, his demeanor imperial. Calmer, he gave the girl a clipped smile. Determination and purpose reared in his imperious eyes. As if on the verge of ordering general quarters, he promised, "I'll speak with her. Maybe even convince her to eat something. How's that?"

"That would be very good, Captain. She liked it when you used to speak with her. You haven't spoken with her for a long time, since…since." Bertrise shook her lowered head in sorrowful fashion. Raising it a fraction, she said as an exhalation, "The trouble. I think it would be good if she saw you again."

As Rachel's disarming young assistant left Tom to himself, feeling his heartbeat quickening, he ruefully muttered, "I kicked her in the teeth and expected her to take it, like she had all my violence coming to her. Misguided, as she can be. Hotheaded and bullheaded as I can be. Her crime was one of passion. She was wrong, but I liked seeing her crumble a little too much. What does that make me?"

_A by-the-book hard-ass_, the nagging voice in his head badgered. _And sadist too_? That last thought worried him.

He was far from innocent in all of this.

…

It was nineteen-hundred hours. After the sound of six bells died, Tom left Bacon, toting a tray laden with an assortment of freshly-made sandwiches, most of them roast beef. All told, he'd managed to set two apples and one orange on the tray, along with two oatmeal cookies, both for her. Fresh milk was the beverage. Since Bertrice was concerned her mentor was getting too thin, these goodies should help get her on the road to weight gain. The guard stepped aside as the captain prepared to knock. Rapping lightly three times, Tom waited, expectant. He did the same thing again, putting more force into it. Upon the non-response, he asked, "Asleep?"

"I don't know, sir. Could be. She came back from the lab looking pretty spent." The guard bit his lower lip. The scuttlebutt was, if Chandler had a plank, he'd make her walk it.

A bad feeling fishtailed in the pit of his gut. The door wasn't locked and since it wasn't, he opened slowly, easing inside the unlit room. Unweighting a hand, he guided it to the light panel at the right. The illumination accentuated the cramped aspect of her cabin. His eyes fell upon the bed and he faltered momentarily, seeing her lanky form curled up into a tight fetal ball. It broke his heart, seeing the shadow of the woman he'd lost his head and heart over reduced to a pitiful shell of her former self.

_Look what you've done_, his internal, hounding voice lit in. _Feast your cruel eyes on whom you've broken_.

"She's not broken," Tom softly negated, setting the tray down. "Maybe a little beat up." He hushed, "I'm sorry..." as he tiptoed to the bunk to look upon Rachel's gaunt features in repose. He knelt, having better access to her loose hair, all splayed upon the pillow. His fingers feather-touched her soft, long tresses. Guiltily, he regarded her, wishing for all the world that what had happened had never happened. He wanted a reset, although knowing her can-do spirit could never be crushed. Would he tell her he was the way he was because he knew no other way in this life he'd chosen. He yearned to tell her he'd been too quick to toss her to wolves, to his own pitiless demons.

One moment her eyes were shut, in the next breath, having heard him stirring, they were at half-mast. Now, staring into his non-judgmental eyes, bordering on reverential, she gasped, "Tom…"

"I brought you something to eat." He recoiled, ashamed that she'd caught him worshipping.

"I'm not hungry," she murmured, still believing she was utterly dreaming. Unable to resist, she reached for his hard-edged jawline, still in the grip of shock.

"Yes you are…"

She did not mince words. "I never thought you'd have anything to do with me again. Not ever."

"I never thought I could wish so hard for something to have never happened in my entire life. I wronged you, bullied you into a situation that forced you to go against your better judgment. It blew up in our faces. And I've done nothing but dump on you."

"In the short time I've known you, you've never put a foot wrong."

"You're kinder to me than I've been to you."

She shifted so he could sit on the edge of the bed, close to her arms so she could embrace his legs, cleaving to him. Glad to get this off her chest, she made plain, "_The misfortune is you had no idea what I was capable of._"

"I know what I'm capable of. To be blunt, I shamelessly turned you out. _Do what I'm telling you, or else_. I gave you no options. Listen..."

"I'm all ears," Rachel pledged.

"You were right. You shouldn't have had anything to do with Sorensen. I wedged your throat under my boot. Forgive me, Rachel." He gathered her into his arms, leaned into her to have his lips caress the top of her closest shoulder. "Here's the hug, long overdue." With tears in his eyes, he openly confessed, "I need you. Can't get through any of this without you. You're...you're." Choked up, he needed a moment. His hands tugged at her torso, the faint delineation of her ribs, evident. This woman dropped weight too quickly, he noted, alarmed.

"Permission that we forgive each other," tenderly Rachel soothed. "Revenge and anger fueled my actions. I had no right to kill him, didn't have to. Out of control, I struck him down. I'm still not sorry that I did. But, I am sorry that I'm lawless in your eyes."

"No—no you're not."

"I failed you."

The hand in her hair dug into her scalp, raking her pate. "You've never failed me! Who am I that you should feel enslaved to please me?"

"I'm not your slave, but I do consider myself a close friend."

Gripping her roughly, he drove home, "You're so much more than that. I failed _you_; hook, line and sinker." He felt he needed to clinch, "Make that stinker."

"I deeply disappointed you, then. What _you_ think of me truly matters."

"Rachel..." As his blush deepened, he cleared his throat. "Something good has to come from this." Hesitating, he admitted, "You weren't being straight with me from the get-go. That sucked."

"I was a coward."

"You're magnificent."

"Don't you mean maleficent?"

"Bad girl." Chastely, he spanked her tushie.

"With feet of clay. Like Adam and Eve, trying to hide what they'd done from God, I strove to hide what I did from you, fearing to lose what I lost. Your trust, respect, your…love. I became a modern-day Cain."

"This sick new world's a bad influence. An influence none of us are immune to. You never lost my trust, respect and love, stronger now than before. You really are my kind of woman." He kissed her forehead. "But, hey—you better not be comparing me to God. That's all I need, folks running around here thinking I've got a God complex."

Despite the gravity of the conversation, they both had to chuckle.

"Perish the thought. I should have been honest. And lack of honesty is a _grievous_ failing. I await what awaits me in that port of my punishment."

"Please don't bring that up," he urged, swamped by second thoughts. "Let's not go there for now. Let's move on, like _our_ ship." Bringing her in to stand trial, wouldn't it only be fair if he stood beside her then too? How was he without guilt? Again, he embraced how grievously he'd connived, had messed with her mind, he the perpetrator of a foul head game.

Their voices thick with emotion, they remained quiet until, Rachel owned up, "I could do with a bite. What did you bring?"

Hugging her as tightly as he could, he boasted, "Will this do for starters?" He crawled off the bed, made it to the tray and scooped up all the sandwiches. Laughing, he'd forgotten how good it sounded, he showered her with wrapped roast beef. "All for you."

"Only if we share."

"Sharing is good," Tom unswervingly agreed. "Practice makes perfect."

"Know what's perfect?" Rachel posed, having taken a bite of he sandwich and savoring her mouthful of food.

"You tell me."

She freed a hand from the sandwich to grasp his hand. "This." The contact contenting, she smiled.

"Not totally perfect. Not yet, but we're working on it."

Rachel took another big bite of sandwich, grinning around the bites.


	12. Chapter 12

This took a while. Hope it's enjoyed.

* * *

Shrapnel was a terrible thing, a dangerous acquisition that either killed a person or stayed with a person for the rest of their life. Propelled metallic shards wreaking havoc, saddening united hearts, galvanizing strained bonds that had suffered shock, making them stronger than ever. This suicide mission might have been his last one. He'd made it back alive, just barely.

Her years of skill and the artistry of her healing hands had saved him. Above all, she did not want him to die; that was unthinkable. This man was flesh, blood, stubborn, hard-nosed, but Tom's innate, inexorable magnetism bound her to him, like gravity. Despite the responsibility she bore for Sorensen's death and the subsequent hit the relationship with the CO had taken, Tom owned her heart.

With riveting eyes, strafing her, he practically sighed, "_Rachel_, thank you." Love swelled, leaking from his heart, mind, soul. If not for her, 'using her powers for good,' he would have died.

Plaintive longing tolled in her ears, hearing his voice fondle her name. Casting him a smile that took its time thawing, her eyes flooded with warmth. She paused a beat, waiting for her racing heartbeat to abate. He was too much, an iron will, pure grit shot through by love, that when awakened, roared like a lion. Furious with her not long ago, now purring at her. "What am I going to do with you?"

Suggestion roiled in his tone and comportment. "Anything you want..." The gleams in his restive, cerulean blue eyes enticed.

Hot under the collar, which she was sure the flush suffused her neck, creeping its way to her ivory cheeks, she sighed. "Allow me to put you under," Rachel submitted a second time, hoping her supplicatory tone might sway him. Concern limned the determination on her face. His condition was more serious than he imagined. It took some getting used to the way he thought. Just because he'd pulled through the numerous times she knew nothing about, didn't mean his current state of health was stable. That shrapnel lodged behind his liver moving could spell irreparable damage, and yes, death, still.

"Anything but that. We lost the four." He winced, not so much as a result of the physical pain, but more so the mental and emotional. "The Master Chief will say a few words in their behalf and, ours, as we move forward to answer the call. I've got to be there, standing tall with my people. My family, paying my deepest respects."

The military man in him could be counted upon to get her goat. Though his sentiments meant something to her, knowing who and what he was, the physician in her adamantly disagreed. Stringently keeping her voice level, Rachel began, "With all due respect, Tom," arching an eyebrow dramatically, Rachel stressed, "you're not out of the woods. Any move you make could dislodge that—"

"And I appreciate your concern," he gently cut in, wishing she'd come closer so he could grasp her hand. He hadn't forgiven her completely, but he was a realist. Handing her over for trial still weighed heavily on his mind. The truth was, he didn't want to be without her. He knew what that sounded like, and lately when he thought about dispelling her from the ship, he would effectively push it from his mind. Wrap his thought processes up in more urgent matters. Yes, she'd done wrong, but she'd done so right, so many times. Amid the chaos, her fire and zeal put so much of his hurt to rest. "I've got to stand with them, Rachel. We are one another's lifeblood. We flow through one another's veins. When one of us falls, we all fall. And those of us who remain, rise as one."

His impromptu mission statement prevented her dissuasion as tears formed in her eyes, tightness hurt her throat. He lived his words and it was a powerful, stirring. Enough so that for a moment she was no longer stalwart, intransigent Dr. Scott. She was a woman caught up in the mystique of one very provocative man, a man plucking her heartstrings like a virtuoso makes a Stradivarius sing. She had a difficult time carrying a tune, but for Tom it was conceivable she might…

"So, that's a 'no' for performing surgery right now."

"Yes, that's a 'no.'"

_Of course it is_, Rachel thought; the faint smile on her face holding its place. _Stubborn to the last_. As her forehead wrinkled, the idea came to her and she said, "I have an idea."

He watched her purposeful search for what, he had no clue. Assuming she was done with him, he tried lifting his torso from the examining table in obvious pain, duress seeping from his face. "I'm free to go, right?" he wheezed, grimacing.

Rachel wheeled around, glaring at him, his resolve to stoically go forth irking her. In a measured breath, she ordered, "No. I've a mind to limit your movement."

Despite his aches and pangs of affliction, he answered in an amused voice, "I'd like to see you try." He kept going, winning a slight victory; he swung his legs off the table, the palm of his hand flush against the lower right side of his inflamed abdomen, drenched in fire. Good glory did it hurt!

"Stop right there!" Rachel barked as though she had traded in her stethoscope for a Drill Sargent's whistle. In this instance, her bark did sound worse than her bite. "I have not finished with you yet—you're not to move until I say. Is that clear!"

Despite his rank, years of service, girth and hardboiled obstinacy, Tom had flinched before being rendered immobile. "Yes, _sir_," he bellyached in a cowed voice. _Never underestimate the brass of this woman_, he conceded. _Pain in my—_

"I shall compress your middle. Making it more challenging for you to move, if you will."

"I get the feeling you'd like making that a permanent condition," Tom razzed, his sense of humor a bit green around the edges. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead as a wave of malaise hit him full force. His color hectic, grit mingled with stubbornness kept him in an upright position. Sheer force of will decreed that she wouldn't see how right she was. The course of wisdom was to continue his medical attention sans interruption, but he was putting that on hold temporarily.

He needed to be with his troops—even if it killed him.

Moments later, having located the proper instrument for wrapping his middle, an elastic bandage, she began the critical task. If it hadn't been such a delicate undertaking, Tom would have been cracking jokes left and right, but he knew better. Rachel was in efficient doctor mode as her trained hands efficiently fitted him with the binding. The gentle, even pressure of the elastic bandage would decrease pain and swelling, hold the bandages on his wound in place, and give support to his injured area.

He admired what she was doing for him, how she looked doing it and the precious way her lips trembled when she looked into his face. While she worked, she had fought off the desire to hug him tightly. She hadn't lost him as she'd feared might have happened if she hadn't made critical decisions that had saved his life. She didn't dare do something as frivolous as that now. As far as she was concerned, it was still touch and go. Only after she removed the remainder of shrapnel and he was in recovery would she rest easier.

"You'll have me back on your operating table soon enough," Tom promised, behaving as if he could first make a detour to the bridge for a surprise inspection before she had him under the knife again.

"You'd better, or I'll come looking for you."

The stern look Rachel threw him took the starch out of his bravado. Chastened, he meekly replied, "You won't have to. Get everything prepped. I'll be there as soon as I can. Back in your capable hands."

She stood aside, causing Tom to wonder if he'd appeased her, or had made her feistier, which seemed he never had to try too hard. Was that sulfur smoldering in her beautiful eyes? "Just don't take your sweet time coming back is all I ask."

"I won't. I promise." He touched her face, made the attempt to bend a fraction to kiss her forehead, but grunted in mid-bend. His face was a sad display of unease.

Rachel shook her head, her disapproval rife. "Hurry. Go, if you must."

"I must, but I'll come back directly."

Again, she reiterated, "You'd better."

Hours following the solemn ceremony for those who had fallen, Rachel had Tom right where she wanted him to be, under, performing his second surgery. All was proceeding well she deemed, keeping strict watch on the readings the monitors fed her. Dr. Rios was an admirable assistant, quick to react when she needed him to staunch bleeding, or alert her to a sudden change in her patient's condition. Closing in on two hours, surgery ended, a success Rachel considered. She had removed all of the shrapnel, making thoroughly sure that his liver was intact. The shrapnel, to her relief and constant fear, hadn't shifted not causing irreparable damage to other vital organs.

Waiting for him to regain consciousness, Rachel sat at his bedside, her eyes never leaving Tom's peaceful face as he slumbered on. Yes, he was as stubborn a man as her own father had been, having allowed her mother to slip through their fingers because he viewed medicine having no place in lives led by solely faith. But, Tom was nothing like her father in many respects. Her emphatic father, governed by rules as he'd been, had lacked the fire those who loved life possessed. Tom was a conundrum, going by the book one moment, ruled by his emotions, the next. It probably wasn't easy being Tom Chandler.

Hearing him groan pulled Rachel from those asymmetrical thoughts. She barely breathed, seeing whether he would open his eyes. When they did, the deepness of their blue took her breath away. He uttered no words, just stared at her as if she were the only person left on earth. The vulnerability in his eyes drew her to him, made her own glisten.

Sounding throaty, she asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Th-thirsty…"

The straw was between his lips instantaneously and he sipped.

"Better?" Rachel importuned, her tone hushed.

Tom nodded. The straw slid out from between his moistened lips, indicating that he'd had enough. His next request was simple enough. With effort she saw took a lot from him, he held his hands up and somehow Rachel knew he wanted to hold her hands. Fitting like a leather glove to hand, hers sought his. Hanging on to her hands tenaciously, he croaked, "Thank you, Rachel. I can't thank you enough."

"You're doing just fine with that," she assured him, her tears on the verge of spilling on his Navy T-shirt.

Still holding her hands tightly, he brought first the right one close to his lips, kissing each finger. He did the same thing with the left. "You're my lifeline, and I'm never letting you go."

As she exhaled a breath, her tears dotted his shirt, and they both smiled.

"Thank you, _Tom_..."


	13. Chapter 13 - Going Down To Sea In Ships

Scars, the pandemic result of shrapnel violating one's body. This wasn't his first unwanted disfigurement, would surely not be his last. It was horrible, deep, sub-subcutaneous; would be with him the rest of his life. Rachel, the only surgeon he could ever want, in league with Doc Rios, had worked a miracle, extracting the metallic trash and stitching him back up with the rudimentary goods they had on hand. Even if they'd had access to one of New York City's finest medical centers, Mt. Sinai Hospital, when it had been at its optimum, they couldn't have done a better job. They were top-notch at what they did and Tom would never forget as long as he lived that in tandem, they'd saved his life.

When he'd come to in recovery, she'd been there, keeping vigil at his side, as if nothing untoward had ever come between them. Maybe she'd put it all behind them. He wasn't altogether certain that he had. But then, not too long afterward, he'd asked her to dinner with all the trimmings, the works, right in the Officers' Club where he hadn't brought up 'the incident' once all through their cozy tete-a-tete. Neither did Rachel, having found that making small talk with him during a five-course meal, consisting of a bright appetizer, sumptuous soup, a summery salad, the hearty main course and decadent dessert, was a smoother way to go. He'd been charming, gallant, erring on the side of making polite conversation and she'd followed suit, picking up where they'd left off, getting to know each other better, before the sad, abortive episode had riven them apart.

Of course, there'd been no gown for her to wear. No diamonds nor pearls to accentuate her star-power. She hadn't brought along jewelry, let alone one dress. That notwithstanding, she had managed to borrow a snazzy strapless black number from one of the more shapely enlisted women. Another enlistee had offered her Aldo black patent leather slingback pumps, which pulled the entire outfit together. For a time, or two, or three, Tom had found it virtually impossible to tear his hooked eyes away from the supple, sensual woman, with sirenic shoulder blades, who had consented to be his dinner guest. Rachel had had no complaints, sitting across from the dashing commander of the _Nathan James_, decked out in full military dress. She hadn't let on, but his medals impressed her into next week. Though they hadn't cleared the air on one front, the more relaxed setting had afforded him the opportunity to break it to her that she, along with Michener, the kids, and the Cure, of course, along with battle-tested roughnecks like the XO, Burk, Wolf…and Tex, whom he'd handpicked, would be going ashore so the _Nathan James_ could pursue and rout the snub-nosed _Achilles_.

He had counted to three, waiting for her protest, but when none had come, only her acknowledgement that as Captain and Commander he was doing what would serve their mission best, it had been then that he'd truly relaxed, free to enjoy the meal. Her meek acceptance had stunned him; his gut told him it had to be a fluke. But when Rachel had admitted that as long as the sub lurked, dogging them, they could never hope to accomplish the widespread transmission of the IC.

"The IC…" Tom had grinned at her fondly, eyes only for her. "I'm liking the sound of that."

And Rachel, sweetly, with a knowing lilt had replied, "As easy to catch as the common cold."

"How'd you get so smart?" he'd jostled, throwing back a bit more of the Merlot they'd been served.

After thoroughly chewing the slice of flank steak she'd placed in her mouth and swallowing, she'd succinctly replied, "I was taught to read. I took it from there."

"Smarty," Tom hadn't minced. She'd probably begun reading before the age of one-and-a-half.

"Takes one to know one," Rachel had stated firmly with a slight twist of her russet red lips, rouged just right for the occasion of letting their hair down.

He'd escorted her back to her cabin, his arm linked with hers, and before bidding her goodnight, instead of kissing her breathless, he'd taken her hand, had flourished his lips before they'd landed smack on their mark. The back of her hand was velvety richness, icing on the dessert. Rachel, though she hadn't drunk as much as he had, had giggled. Her giggling, light and airy, with all the earmarks of his needing to have as much of that as he could possibly have in his life, had convinced him. Rachel was a keeper and his were the only dibs.

Now, if they could just survive the upcoming battle royal.

That first time he'd stared at his unsavory souvenir from the oil rig had filled him with sadness. Following the dipping of his head, he'd glared at it, and himself, again. His face had filled with rage. He would make those tumors of this malignant world, in their underwater tin can pay—those contemptible Immunes! Here he was checking this impossible scar out again, minutes before the grand unloading of human precious cargo commenced. He wasn't vain, was he? No—that wasn't it. What it was, was a culmination of all the scars, emotional and physical, all aboard his ship had suffered. This one tattooed across the lower right of his belly was just one more. That's all it was, just another reminder that this new world was a vile battlefield and if you didn't mind your six, you'd wind up like this, or worse.

And the sucker was all tender and burning to beat the band, hose him down because it was throbbing with a pulse all its own. Could it be infected? Fine time for her to be leaving. He had a love-hate thing going on with her hands-on bedside manner. He could hear her in his head now:

_"Hands off that. Must I make that an order? You won't make it any better worrying it…"_

The more 'British' she got, the more 'Yankee' he got.

"Tom?"

She stood in the p-way, like a pylon, with her head stuck inside his cabin, one foot over the knee knocker, working her way in. A strap of her backpack was slung over a shoulder. Her hair was unruly, but stunning. She had such beautiful hair that framed her picture-perfect face, which, by his taking a hasty glance at, she was cross. Wasn't she? Sometimes it was easy to tell. Sometimes, not so much. Though she might look as if she were ready to pull the rug out from under his feet, she merely ruffled the Persian rug.

Her knickers in a twist, as she'd put it, she gushed into his private space before he got the chance to pull his shirt all the way down.

"Caught you at it again, haven't I?"

"It's sore," he groused, sounding like a boy of eight, perhaps nine. "Hurts."

Gingerly, she raised his shirt back up to have a critical look for herself. "Hmmm, it's somewhat florid, but all-in-all, it's coming along. You know what I've told you."

"Yeah, I know," he softly gnarred. "_Don't fuss with it_." Easy to say, hard to control not to, he internalized.

Amused with his off-kilter imitation of her inflection, Rachel favored him with a variation of his lopsided smile. "Precisely." She used an additional moment to further her inspection. "Not to worry. It isn't infected."

"Y'sure?"

"I would say so if it were," Rachel said, intent on allaying his misgivings concerning septicity, if that was what upset him.

"Nasty scar," Tom griped, screwing up his face at the cicatrix's stark reflection. It cut right into the six-pack. "Butt ugly." Excepting hers; her 'bootay' was classical artwork.

"Is that what you're on about?"

"No, I'm not 'on about' _it_." Now he was starting to feel silly, ruing that he was giving her the impression that she might think him vain, which he wasn't. Right? What was wrong about being proud of his six-pack, the way his sweat polished up the sculpted muscles? He had a six-pack that got its share of whistles. Now his pride and joy was marred. Like he'd been thinking over and over, payback was due for the slimy Immunes.

"The stitches shall completely dissolve, and as it continues to heal, shrinkage will lessen the unsightliness."

"Unsightliness," Tom bit off, seeing a deeper shade of red. "Ugliness," he spat like venom.

Pinching the inside of the bend of his elbow, Rachel quipped, "Have no fear. Rest assured…scar, or no scar, you're still the _sexiest_ man on this ship."

His mouth fell open like a mannequin's. Deepening red inched a crawl up Tom's neck, warming incrementally. Knowing full well she noted the tell's progress, looking shell-shocked, he purred, "What did you say?"

"You heard me," she flung at him, full of outspokenness. "Sexy."

Finding it hard to swallow, let alone speak, he stared at her as if his eyes were blinded by headlights.

She prattled on, "Would it help if I kiss your injury to hasten the healing process?"

Not thinking one iota with his brain, he blurted, "There are better places to kiss."

The edginess pulsating in the room stopped her cold as she looked as blinded as he with her eyes as round as saucers, her imagination running wild. "I—uh…I suppose…"

Mentally palm-slapping his forehead, he nodded before shaking his head. That last remark demanded he exercise better restraint. This was no way to go into a battle of the highest stakes. Just because she'd said what she'd said didn't mean this conversation should become no holds barred. "Hold that thought," he murmured, brushing her hair back behind her shoulder.

"I will," she assured, just as tenderly.

At the open cabin door, Mike stood, unaware that Rachel was with Tom in the lavatory. The angle where she was kept her discreetly hidden. "Sir," Slattery spoke with military precision, "the disembarkation is underway."

As Rachel smiled wistfully at Tom, he crisply said, "Aye. I'm on my way up. See you there." His face took on an ilk of no-nonsense, tinged by the sincerest admiration and affection for this brainy knockout as he gazed at her full-on. "And as for you…" That was a tremor in his voice, blatant, a betrayal. She expected him to be strong. He was failing. He couldn't believe it; suddenly tongue-tied, all he could do was trace her beauty with heartsick eyes. Was this goodbye? What if they got blown to bits? This really could be it. Caught in the vise of this crazy vortex, they'd never had a chance. His throat tightened and his vision grew dim. With a heavy heart, he smiled before it crumpled, burying his nose in her lovely hair, when, on cue, Rachel unstintingly berthed herself in his arms. "Upping my dosage," Tom hedged through his uneasy sigh.

"My pleasure," Rachel stammered, loath to relinquish the security his nearness bathed her in. "I'm here for as many as you need."

"I need…believe me when I say I need." What a liar he'd been, having told her it had never been about what they were doing with each other right now.

They clung to each other for as long as they could before duty irrevocably called, and as Rachel deliberately peeled herself from him, eventually she braced his head between her hands, invigorating him with her volatile eyes. "This isn't goodbye, and you know that. You of all the brave, selfless, intelligent people with us on this journey know this. Onward, my valiant, handsome warrior. Go forth and conquer…" Tom, his mind lit up like a Roman candle, craned his head, inclining his forehead toward her mouth and her lips knighted him.

"Stick close to Mike, Burk, Wolf…" She noticed his hesitation when he reluctantly added, "And…Tex, m'lady."

"But not as close to Tex as the others," Rachel chided, seeing something familiar, profound, bloom in his brilliant eyes, the vivid turquoise of an endless ocean. When transparency broke through his tough mold it gave her pause.

Tom cupped her face with a gentle hand. "I'm not the jealous type. I'm just sayin'."

Could this man be more delectable? She couldn't imagine how much more so. "You have no cause to be jealous." Sure he must be hearing the savage pounding of her steadfast heart, she vetted, "You'll see."

So saying, he enveloped her in his arms once more until time pressed in on them, harder this time. Hurrying away, she collected her backpack. Minding the knee knocker, she scurried through the door, too emotional to look back. However, at the point of disembarkation, she was the last of the departees to turn back around. Indecision washed over her. She tamped down the nutsy impulse to streak back to him, throw her arms around his neck, vowing she wasn't going anywhere because leaving him was impossible. If he went down with his ship, she was going right with him. Her team could carry on without her at this stage; the Cure was in good hands. As long as she stuck with Tom, so was she. Abruptly, she heard Tex call her name, snapping her out of her topsy-turvy quandary.

Her eyes locked with Tom's, hers crying out, speaking what he'd fumbled and couldn't say, not yet.

_'Love you…always will…'_

In that split second, she saw that look, the look meant solely for her, turning the tide. Committing to him her beatific smile, which held promise, which he tentatively returned, Rachel caught up with the others.


	14. Chapter 14 - An Officer And A Gentleman

S/N: Overall, it's AU. What can I say? The 'bang-bang' shook me up so badly.

* * *

Having put enough distance between him and herself, the strong scent of his cologne unhinging her as she sashayed down the corridor, Rachel caught herself wondering if the brazen sass in her walk was still being appreciated. The Aldo slingbacks, which she'd worn for their intimate dinner aboard the _Nathan James_ not long ago, lent stature to her gait. Well, he'd mentioned the dress that the judge's daughter had lent her was nice. He'd made a point of making that point. She, having blushed like some tongue-tied schoolgirl when he'd caught and held her eyes with his blue bombers, reeled again. Even if she had been wearing jeans to the ball, she would have pulled it off. In his eyes, she was the quintessential beautiful woman. The way he looked at her, couldn't stop looking at her, gave him away as predictably as pride came before a fall.

Despite his posturing hauteur and vainglorious musings, he had fallen, hard for her.

She knew, gloating a bit. She owned him, no two ways about it. But, she boasted no immunity from the love bug's bite. In all their time together, she had never walked away from him like a streetwalker, daring him to make his move. She'd meant the roll of her hips to entice Tom before they parted, perhaps parting forever. He'd told her to find him when she returned. What if she didn't come back? What if something unforeseen, something tragic befell them both? How could she be doing this, just walking away? Was it up to her to make that move? They had something, something sound, something as true as the dissemination of the Cure. They meant everything to each other.

So why were they backing off? They'd held the world in the palms of their hands and had given it to each other.

Before Rachel could stop herself, she couldn't stop herself, had no willpower over herself at all. She was on automatic pilot, goaded by Tex's words, elbowing her in the ribs. Tom and she had just spoken, but they really hadn't connected, not the way they needed to. The shadow dancing was getting old, so stale. Their stand-off, the pussyfooting around what lurked in their hearts, not exposing what really lay beneath their soulful looks of longing effortlessly exchanged, was unacceptable, not at this stage.

What made saying potent words of desire so hard? The thought of it being now, or never, drilled down on Rachel, causing her to spin around on her heel. Dismayed to see that Tom was gone, she felt marooned in this noiseless hallway. What kind of goodbye had it been?

_'…I'll see you when I see you…'_

"Pathetic," Rachel exhaled through a groan, shivering. This man had risked everything for her, sacrificed his soul, practically, she mulled, initiating her short journey of return, marching to his door.

_'When you get back…find me.'_

"Anemic," she hissed, hovering at his door, the gateway to her future. Did she have the gumption to knock? Seconds ticked off and still she made no move. As though frozen in time and place, she stared at the daffodil flat-painted door, suddenly feeling the fool. She'd surmounted Herculean hurdles before. What made this one gargantuan, insurmountable? "Because I love him," Rachel murmured, with eyes closed. "But…I…don't…know…if…I can…tell him…"

Of course, she had no knowledge that on the other side of this door, Tom, with his forehead leaned against it, creasing his forehead, was silently cursing himself for being such a big, block-headed coward. Soundlessly, he whispered, "Dumb-as-a-grunt, you let her get away still thinking you can take her or leave her. Like being cool right now is heroic." He rapped his knuckles on the door, drowning in frustration. "Tell her—ask her like you've rehearsed a thousand and one times. Don't let this jewel slip through your fingers, Dumb-as-a-grunt. Spell it out so she knows loud and clear. She's who you want. You might not get another chance if you don't speak now." When he flung open the door, seeing her standing there, they both gasped.

Throughout this vast city, people were catching wellness, all because of these atypical people, who lit up lights in the other's eyes.

"Tom?" Wonderment filled hers, as though he were half-dressed despite his being still in splendiferous full dress.

"Rachel…uh…uh." Nervousness punctuated his little laugh. Having had the sub ping directly beneath them seemed like child's play compared to facing her like this. He shook his head, trying to clear it. This was no drill; this was the real thing. He adjusted his tone, quasi-coming to attention. Bound and determined, he announced, "I was on my way to see you."

"You were?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Gently, his fingers wrapped around her forearm so he could tow her inside, with no resistance. Why else was she here? To be with him, although, this wasn't the time for a public viewing of his feelings on display. This was for Rachel only. Closing the door, he gingerly began, "I've got something to say."

With a pinching of her lips to one side, she regarded him, trying not to think how amusing she found him, as if someone had swapped out a girder for his spine. _Serious, delirious, this smacks of mysterious_, she thought. "I'm all ears."

_Munch-able ones_, he considered, _and a slew of other munch-worthy areas I'd like to sample_. About to plunge into his monologue, he paused, the thought having struck him. "What were you doing outside my door? I thought you were headed for your room?"

"I was, but then this overwhelming impulse to speak with you further overpowered me…and here I am." Stepping out of the killer Aldos, she wriggled her freed toes. Despite the shoes being a far cry from stilettoes, they weren't the most comfortable shoes she was accustomed to. "Though I'm your guest, you outrank me. So...you first." Without being asked, she padded over to one of the twin dark walnut highback wing chairs across from the king size bed. Looking comfy, she pertly invited, "You may fire when ready, Gridley."

Tom squirmed, unconsciously going for his collar with his forefinger, unbuttoning a button, then loosening his tie. He appeared squeamish, she judged, purposely softening her eyes, hoping to ease his palpable tension.

"I had a grand time tonight. You're a wonderful dancer," she plied, buttering him up.

"You're not bad yourself. You're magic." As her blush flared, she averted her eyes, seemingly engrossed suddenly with the drab pattern of the dreary rug. His obvious advance on her stalled, or so she thought, an error in judgment on her part. Aware that he hadn't missed a beat, arriving to stand in front of her, she noticed that he was fishing for something on his person. Once he garnered it, Rachel stared in abject disbelief and shock, watching him go down on one knee.

"Magical together," she couldn't help utter as bravely as she could muster, hoping he hadn't notice the tremulous hitch in her voice. He was laudable, looking this discombobulated. "What's on your mind?"

Having produced a midnight blue velvet box, he expertly opened it. No small feat since his hands were shaking. With his heart up his throat, Tom showcased its contents. He was having trouble with his voice as well. "Ra-chel—" Further loosening of his tie didn't help much. "In the hallway just now, when you started walking away, I lost my nerve."

Her eyes glued to the platinum pave halo diamond ring, she squeaked, "I-is this r-really happening?" This was something straight out of what used to be Disneyland.

"Only if you say it should…" He was already at work, carefully slipping the glittery keepsake on the third finger of her left hand, smiling like he'd just been made CNO—wait, he had been made Commander of Naval Operations. On a scale of 1 to 10, that promotion was an 11. The look on his lady's face was a 12.

If she quipped that this was all so sudden, it would sound trite, even though his proposal was beyond out of the blue. Instead, she softly yielded, "You wish to marry me?" Why had she made it sound as though he were asking a two-headed dragon?

"I do." The exigent need in his voice coursed in her veins. "If you'll have me…" She cupped his face in her hands; he kissed each palm as if he were doing penance. "I know this is crazy, but despite how I've been acting, treating you like crap, I've been thinking about 'us' ever since I knew I can't be without you. I'm stubborn, and hardnosed, but I know enough to know that I want you, Rachel." Pining meshed with avidity melded as humility bubbled to the surface. "Don't give me your answer now. You'll have plenty of time to decide if you seriously want to do the unthinkable and saddle yourself with me, while you're away."

Throwing caution to the wind, Rachel replied, "You'd let me go on my way without knowing what my answer is?" Pressing her lips lightly against his, she teased, "Thomas Bryce Chandler, you are one completely impossible man." Taking a breath, she confessed with abandon, "I'd have you no other way."

"I don't want you to feel trapped, or cornered. You're too free-spirited for that. Being your own woman turns me on, and on and on and on."

"Does it now?" she verbally stroked, flipping him a saucy wink.

His ardor fanned, he strove keeping his voice level. "Never mold yourself to what I may want."

"Unless you happen to be right," Rachel sweetened, rolling big irrepressible eyes at him as he turned a bright shade of crimson.

Better blushers there could never be; these two held the title.

"You be the judge. You're not one to knuckle under."

"Here, here. As are you."

"So, don't start just because. Just because I can become a bully too quickly. Okay? Been there, done that and it sucked like no tomorrow, giving you all kinds of hell." He heard how wound up he sounded, yet floundering at the same time. She must think him mad. The vicissitudes of this ultra-unconventional war had pushed him over the edge. He reined himself in. "Well, if we exchange vows, that is." He was down on both knees now, smoothing his hands over her shapely knees. "You're perfect just the way you are."

She couldn't speak, couldn't think, was having the hardest time breathing. He made it so easy for her to forget how. All she could do was feel, feel his gratitude, his empathy, and most of all his love. "My answer is yes. Yes. Yes, yes. YES. I believe it will always be this way with us. We'll meet each other halfway, and we'll be perfect…together." She grabbed his face and showered every inch of it with kisses. "Yes, my captain. I shall be honored being Misses Thomas B. Chandler, C-N-O of the American Navy."

"I've decided to get back to Michener on that. I'm not sure if it's what I want." Chuckling, he freely admitted, "But I know I want _you_." His lips moored to her neck, he submitted even more humbly, "Mister T. B. Chandler, proud husband of the wonder woman who rolled-out the Cure. And vaccinated my sad heart against perpetual mourning."

The precision with which he ravished her mouth made her breathless. Stealing needed air, Rachel sputtered, "You've changed your mind. You intend to do away with me after all."

"Huh?"

Looking pie-eyed, oozing sensuality, Rachel tapped his close-lipped mouth with her tongue. The sparks in her eyes sizzled as she breathed, "Your kiss is killer."

Snickering, Tom croaked, "You vixen."

Tightening her arms around his neck, laughing high and brightly, she said, "Yes. Yes I am. All your fault."

A serious tone crept into his voice as he searched her eyes. "Think there'd be enough time for us to tie the knot before you fly out?"

He wasn't giving her much time, but then, wasn't this what she had started wanting, coveting what wasn't hers when he belonged to another? "How fast do we think we can say, 'I do?'" Shrugging against him, she pointed out, "I'm out of here at ten-hundred hours. That gives us time if we're up before dawn, go before the judge and pledge our troth in record time."

Scowling in typical Tom Chandler fashion, he shook his head, dissatisfied with what he'd just suggested, just as she had accepted it. "Nah. Scrap that."

"I'm up for it, if you are."

His hands that held her waist fast cinched tighter. "You deserve a spectacular wedding with all the trimmings. White dress, wedding ring, lots of flowers, those ladies in pastel dresses. A symphony cranking out the wedding march. And cake and champagne. Lots and lots of cake and champers!" Huffing, he growled, "Not some quicky deal." More to himself he grumbled, "Then I won't see you for months."

"I don't care about those things," she insisted, upsetting the straightness of his cap sitting atop his head with the index finger of her right hand beneath its bill. Holding her breath, she removed his military headgear with both hands and tossed the sailor topper Frisbee-style on the bed where it joined the manila envelope.

"_I_ do. I care. Have you ever been married?"

"No."

"Then it's doubly important to me that you have what first-time brides should have."

"Hmm, what did you just say about not molding myself to your demands, hmm?" The mindful arch of her eyebrow took substantial wind out of his sails.

"Oh, boy…here we go."

"No. No, not at'all. If it's what you want for me, Tom, Luv. Then, it's fine by me."

He stood at his full height, appearing to have grown a few inches. He gathered up her hands, squeezing them tight, then kissed their alabaster backs as he had her stand. "May I have another dance, Wife-To-Be?"

"You may, kind sir." As pragmatic as ever, despite the mega-romanticism of this occasion, she pointed out, "We've no music."

"Will this do?" Holding her closer to his body than he'd ever done before, he softly began humming the tune _You Are My Sunshine_ into an ear. Feeling her much smaller frame tremble against his larger one, he held her more tightly, heady, jubilant beyond rational thought. His humming trailed off and with come hither finesse, he softly wooed, "Don't go. Stay with me tonight so we can hold each other for as long as we've got before you go."

"The honeymoon first?" The very thought fired so many neurons, it made her dizzy beyond belief. "I-if…you believe y-you're up to it. But as your physician, I'd advi—"

He shook his head against her exquisite cheek, cutting her off. Confirmation was solid; he wasn't dreaming. She was his. "Nope. We'll save that for after. I'm old-fashioned that way. Like the way my folks were once they became wife and husband following their ceremony."

"You win again." Rachel drew her head back from his chest, kissing its center as she issued a contagiously-contented sigh.

"How right you are. I got you."

"Winners all around, if you will."

"I think I will." Forgetting all about his recent surgery, he scooped her up into his strong arms, groaning involuntarily when his wound nagged.

"Don't overdo it," Rachel cautioned, quietly prodding him with reproving looks to set her down, brushing her fingers over his cheek.

"Yeah, you're right. I'm not at full capacity." Being on the mend was cramping his style, thinking that, as his molars gently kneaded the lining of his inner cheek.

"Oh, you'll do," she rooted, patting the undamaged side of his middle. Under his approving eyes, she informed, "I've a trifle more gear to pack."

More things to pack? Like what? But, he didn't open his mouth to ask. She liked doing things her own way he reminded himself. Most likely she wanted to change into something much more comfortable, he also figured, jeans and a T-shirt, her unofficial uniform. He grinned, although his objection came out as a whine. He didn't care. "Can't that wait until morning?"

"It could, but if I finish it up now, we'll have more time for breakfasting."

"Nice…"

"And I'll change out of this into my normal clothes." She had used her powers for seeing how quickly he could come around to her way of thinking and since he had, she was at the door about to open it. "I shan't be long."

Closing in on her, twining his fingers with hers, he stipulated, "You'd better not be." He took his time about surrendering her hand. Rising up on tiptoes, she pecked his cheek, then stepped back into the borrowed Aldos. She opened the door and went through. The sway of her hips had Tom drooling, sticking his head through the space, watching her go. Insistently, he ordered, "Hurry back."

Abruptly, Rachel spun around, a veritable vision to behold, which he ate up this second time around, with all his might. "I shall."

"I love you," he hooted, filling the hallway with bubbly elation.

Swooning, beside herself, having heard his carefully inflected words, Rachel continued her backwards walking, reaching out to him with her left arm. She brought her outstretched hand to her lips, kissing her engagement ring and nodding. She blew him a kiss with the same hand and returned, "Love you more. I'll be back in a jiff."

Tom leveled the biggest smile at his girl, memorizing every memorable move Rachel made as she descended the staircase, bound for her room one flight below. This time tomorrow, she'd be in Nebraska. Her itinerary left him cold. Between now and when she was scheduled to depart afforded him little time. There had to be a way that they could still be together and she could accomplish what the President expected of her.

RTRTRTRT

The lone gunman, armed with cruel intentions, made Rachel's swift return to Tom impossible. The bullet wound disfiguring her chest was a despicable reminder that all was not right with this aberrant new world. Having heard the shot ring out, Tom now knelt beside her, his heartsick, desperate eyes all too aware of the bullet responsible for bringing her down was lodged in the wall.

Feebly, Rachel attempted to slow the rapid outflow of her precious vital fluid. The beautiful dress was a macabre tapestry of gore. Tom's hand double-teamed, covering the hand she pressed with, doubling down to impede her blood loss. With painstaking care, he positioned himself behind her. Hard-core, as this revolting situation called for, he did his best, curtailing the loss from the exit wound, willing that she stabilize.

"Hang tough," he recited over and over like some oracular mantra, cradling her protectively. Why hadn't he gone with her? _Why, why_, _why_? His voice breaking, he beseeched, "Hold on for us—atta girl. You can do it!"

Her breathing thready, she faintly begged, "H-hum y-your s-song, Tom." She blinked slowly several times, struggling to stay conscious. Willing her heart to take it easy. _Remain calm_, her mind commanded. "You are my sunshine…"

With tears like globules surfeiting his eyes, he brokenly complied. _You Are My Sunshine_ cracked in his windpipe; Rachel managed a fragile smile, ethereal, like a puff of smoke, which he missed with her back to him.

Aborting his humming, he feverishly implored, "Baby, don't die—please! Don't die! Please!"

"Keep humming," she barely whispered. The sound of his deep voice focused her, kept her mind on the task at head, adrenalizing her vitals.

He had his order and he started up again with vigor renewed. He kept right on humming away, hardy and true, until the help he'd bellowed for arrived. Over the partying whoops, his maniacal cries for succor had been heard. Members of the crew, led by Mike, beset the hallway, bearing a stretcher from the hotel. Doc Rios, who'd chosen to attend the party later, was with them too. Already directing that the precious cargo be handled with excessive care, he performed a precursory inspection before loading her unto the stretcher. At the end of sixty seconds, he had some answers. Relief swelled in his eyes as he searched for additional wounds. Thankfully, the bullet had passed on through. The path of the bullet was impossible to determine in the field. Only when they had her on the operating table would he know how extensive the damage was. Although her loss of blood was substantial, he was certain that Ringer's Lactate solution would duly compensate for the decrease in volume. She breathed with a wheeze, so he administered a BA to better facilitate each breath she struggled to take. Ordinarily, he wasn't in the habit of bringing a breathing device with him, but tonight he happened to have one, had picked one up at a local medical supply so sickbay would have at least two on hand.

The weak security at the nearest hospital ruled out taking Rachel there. During her transport by chopper to the _Nathan James_, she slipped in and out of consciousness more times than Tom could handle. When she came to right before the chopper landed on the heliport, Tom dug his fingers into her hand.

"Y-you're not h-humming," Rachel weakly admonished, focusing tired eyes on him.

"On it," Tom promised, commencing the purring of their song emanating from deep within his throat. Swatting at his tears, he never stopped clinging to her hand, or ceased the melody until separation at sickbay parted them. Milowsky, who'd remained aboard the ship, along with those of the medical staff, who hadn't gone ashore, were prepped.

Left alone with his distraught thoughts, all Tom could do was wait now. Pray that their having a future together was no pipe dream.

_Why, why, why_? Hanging his head, he sobbed uncontrollably with Mike stepping up to embrace his former CO, clapping his back. Steely sorrow engulfed the battle-tested, stricken warrior. The violence of his pain racked his body, saturated with his sweet, fair lady's noble blood.

"She's gonna make it, Cap. She's what you are, only with double X chromosomes," Mike bolstered. "Hard as nails."

Feeling weightless in his former XO's stalwart arms, Tom would brook nothing less than a miracle. "Who did this to her?" he barked, pulling himself together as though an alarm had gone off in his head.

"From what we've piece together so far, an unidentified Immune who's still at large," Slattery reported. "A housekeeper has come forward claiming she encountered a man casually roaming the hallways earlier in the evening. Michener is secured."

Thoughts of the POTUS swirled in Tom's mind, adding to his agitation. "We've got McDowell. We'll find out if he knows this Immune," Tom rasped from his gut. "We capture the piece of crap; we handle it _our_ way."

The men, grim, their faces rigid, took stock of the other, leaving little doubt that Rachel's unknown assassin would wish he'd never been born if he fell into their hands, primed for meting out justice with iron fists.

* * *

Rest assured, **TBC**


	15. Chapter 15 - Here I Am, Baby

S/N: Until we really know what happens when TLS resurfaces, this will have to hold. I thank one and all for your treasurable reviews. Everyone, you've been aces. They'll be more, but I regret that it will be once Season 3 takes us on the ride once more, saving Rachel for starters.

Humble acknowledgment to Mr. Al Green for the lyrics to "_Here I Am_."

Big TNT Hugs...Sue

* * *

She'd been taken to the _Nathan James_, but could not stay. Her medical condition was so serious, it warranted her being taken to the best hospital in St. Louis, which was Barnes-Jewish Hospital/Washington University, a teaching center. Before the Red Flu had struck, the facility was ranked nationally in 14 adult specialties. Following the snowball spread of the plague, the prestigious 1,310-bed general medical and surgical facility had taken a huge hit. Despite the ravages of the virus, the people in positions of power who had been called upon to make critical decisions had adopted a medical catastrophic mentality. The policies that had been fine-tuned and implemented had paved the way for Barnes-Jewish to fare far better than other hospitals in the greater metropolitan area.

So when Rachel was brought in, excellence in trauma treatment took over. If she'd been in any condition of fitness to say where she would have wanted to be treated, this hospital would have been her glowing choice. When her team of top surgeons had learned who it was they were operating on, they pulled out all the stops. She, the illustrious researching paleo-microbiologist, who'd snatched the teetering world back from the brink, wasn't about to buy it. _Sic semper tyrannis_—ha, not on _their_ watch—no ma'am!

The head surgeon, Dr. Elias Strasberg, had confessed that although the bullet had cleared her body, its disruptive travel through it had been egregiously destructive, no quibbling on that front. The projectile had done more damage exiting than when it had entered, wrecking tissue and bone in close proximity via a 'shock wave' effect. Drs. Milowsky and Rios concurred, having had their initial response to Rachel's trauma praised; Tom and Mike had hung on the crack-medical expert's every simplified word. The learned doctor had gone on to explain, essentially for the seamen's benefit, that soft tissue carried shock waves easier than bone, but since bone was dense, it could absorb more force and more of the damage. Yet, bones splintered, resulting in further damage by the splinters morphing into projectiles themselves. Rachel had endured both scenarios to a greater and lesser extent. She'd sustained some bone splintering, to a lesser degree, but greater shock wave effect.

Dr. Strasberg had verified what Mike and Tom already knew. A bullet leaving the body was better than one remaining inside. The one that had impacted Rachel, which had since been retrieved, was ball ammo, fired by a .32 caliber semi-automatic pistol. If she'd been hit by a hollow tip, designed to flatten and spread, creating a wider area for its track, the damage caused by shock waves and cavitation would have been more extensive. Mercifully, her assailant had only fired once.

Tom, on auto-pilot since the shooting, blanked from his mind the thought of her having taken a shot to the head at such close range. Her death would have been sealed, with him never being the same again. That having been said, having sustained the shot in the torso, regardless of the bullet type, Rachel had a battle on her hands, prognosis touchy.

Twitchy, Tom was like a fixture, perched at her bedside, thinking how much he needed to be in that bed with her as she lay comatose, like Sleeping Beauty, awaiting her true love's kiss. Oh, if only his could awaken her, rekindle the fire in her invincible eyes, reignite her spark. Tell her over and over how much he loved her and was never letting her go. Even if that meant reworking his entire life so that he and his kids would fit seamlessly into hers, his love was that strong. Ash and Sam would grow to love her as much too.

Rachel, a surgical success forty-eight hours ago, was somnolent, imprisoned by an insidious jailer, a jealous wooer binding her fast. She could wake up in the next split second, or sleep on indefinitely. What might it be? Tom gave his unshaven face a forceful scrubbing. Sniffling, he crept close to her ear in the same manner he'd done since she'd come to lay in one of the 1,310 beds.

"Darling...I know you can hear me." Coma victims were capable of perceiving sounds; he believed that with all his heart. As he took up her delicate left hand, his eyes fell upon the salvaged engagement ring, no longer begrimed by blood. He had managed to remove the band from her finger before the doctors here had operated. While they had labored to save her, he'd labored to cleanse the freshly-bestowed symbol of love and devotion. "Just a sign, Rach. One tiny squeeze of my hand. I'm not asking for much. All I'm asking for is you…back, vibrant, whole." He branded his possession upon her flesh with worshipful lips, murmuring how much he needed her to awaken. "Come out of it. End this nightmare. Please, sweetheart. I'll come apart if you go." Tears refilled his eyes, but did not fall, blurring his vision. "Make our future together a reality." Her non-animation crushed him as his mind phased, skewered by the past, the present, which left him cold, and what possibly lay ahead...

That first time he'd met her, she all bluster and verve, a pillar of determination. The first time she'd confessed that she'd kept things from him. The first time, although with keen reservations, he'd knocked at her cabin door, checking to see if she was all right so late at night because she was the only one aboard who guaranteed that the Cure was legit. His family had been infected! How she'd sought to ease his mind, vowing that his wife and children would be saved. Though left unsaid, it had been unspoken. They had the makings of being a good team.

In a rough, low voice, Tom rumbled, "You saved my kids, my dad. You would have saved Dary if it hadn't been too late for her. If it weren't for you, everybody'd be dead. You've got to come back to me, Rach. You can't leave me like this. I can't leave you—I won't! I'll do whatever it takes, devote myself to your recuperation. We'll get through this. Mike can be CNO. I'm not leaving you, not for a second."

A man at the end of his rope, he would promise anything if only she made her way back to him.

The ideations in his mind knotted; jumbled memories tangled, coalesced. He thought about her having been entangled in Amy Granderson's clutches. Somehow, he'd known she would be okay, which she had been, but if he had it to do over again, there would never have been any separation, despite his having had to find his family. When Granderson had shown her true colors, it had been too late. Sinking into a niggling despair all too easily, he berated himself, yet again, for having not gone with her to her room, not 'having had her back,' failing to live up to his guarantee. If only he had known danger had lain in wait for her. His negligence, once again responsible. Now, here she was, like this, and here he was, a mess, desperate for her making a full recovery. A not so gentle jiggle of her hand this time made him feel utterly helpless. Guilt, like a bullet, shot through him, her non response plaguing him afresh, while he remembered their passionate reunion in the p-way just outside where his kids and father had bedded down for the night, having left Baltimore in their wake.

Then, days later, as he recalled, with shadowy reflections flooding his mind, she had apologized for, as she'd seen it, throwing herself at him, akin to what she'd done aboard the Russian ship. Despite his present dejection, her rash actions in that undertaking coaxed a smile from him now. She'd wanted him back and she'd gone to get him—herself. Going against his orders meant nothing to her. Mike was dead-on about her. Her X chromosomes had traces of Y in them.

"Fight as hard as you can, Darling," Tom growled, anger rolling off him. "With all your might. Give it all you've got. Come back to me!"

Hours ago, before this violence had occurred, she'd accused him of slaying her with his mouth. He could say the same of her. As clichéd as it sounded, her kiss set his soul on fire. When she'd kissed him aboard the Vyerni, another cliché sprang to mind now; time had stood still as they'd gotten lost in each other, their bodies responding, in the midst of that gawking audience.

"I love you so much," Tom seethed, acerbic. The sheer stupidity of what had happened tore at his heart and mind in tandem. He could not lose her—not like this. "Wake up—wake up—please—wake up…" Another round of tears topped off his swollen eyes as another memory pulled him in an alternate direction.

"If I were really Superman, it'd be as natural as breathing protecting you." The sour taste cloyed in his mouth. She'd settled the contention that had arisen over the premise that the man of steel could be in two places at the same time when they'd had that discussion. Imagine that, she was an avid reader of graphic fiction too, and no stranger to similar sci-fi T.V. programs. As she had put it, '_The odd bits we have in common are…'_

And he'd finished her sentence. She had wanted him to, as he recalled, retracing the look she'd worn on her thoughtful face in his mind. "Perfect," he uttered again, here in her silent presence. "Like you…" And his face crumpled, which he promptly buried into her sheet-covered side.

What was he doing? Torturing himself like this, rehashing every glance, glimpse, phrase, suggestion, sigh, touch, not ever wanting to forget. He should have stopped, but somehow, he couldn't, as addictive as it was, cathartic too in a way. His mind and heart worked hand-in-hand recreating the odd bubble that had served to cushion against, as best as it could, the harsh realities of post-Red Flu life. They had found much solace in each other, despite their differences, but even their camaraderie hadn't remained unharmed.

Torturing himself was his strong suit, as she'd once pointed out. He'd added nothing in his defense, had just regarded her coldly. His frigid stare his anwer. He was a man haunted; over time, she had learned just how much, unable to convince him that he needed to stop caning himself. Blaming himself for things far beyond his control came with the command and the current state of this harrowing world. But, he had taken to blaming her as time went on. He vilified himself for that now too. He raised his heavy head from her dormant body, looking miserable, searching for any change, however slight, in her heartbreaking condition.

He needed to shower, shave, eat something, get a bit of sleep himself. Sleep? Out of the question. How could he sleep as wired and as riddled with remorse as he was?

"I'm, sorry, Rachel. All the wrongs I've done to you is swallowing me up, eating me alive. Devouring me whole. I've failed you so often. I can't fail you now. I've got to keep talking to reach you. How else will you know I'm here?" He crushed her ring-fingered hand. Dog-tired, his eyes riveted on her static face, he willed that she sense. "Feel that?" He compressed her hand again, knowing the pressure exerted was hard enough to perhaps crack bones in her hand. He was hurting her; he had to.

Nothing.

Mauling his lower lip with upper teeth, he stared at her, she locked in heedless repose. "Open your eyes," he said in a hushed, controlled voice that belied his chagrin. For a crazy moment, the urge to combatively shake her into consciousness rose up. Deprive her of oxygen, being provided by the nasal catheter, and jolt her awake. His more rational side defused his wilder impulses. He transported himself to numerous occasions wherein their wills had battled. He, as captain had had the right to impose. He as the authority, who could stop him? The Cure's salvation and hers had dictated. Her safety and the Cure's had always been the primary objective.

Staring at her harder, he knew. The import of how miserably he'd failed clobbered him, so many times now, he felt hamstrung. Over and over his stroke attacked, he its demoralized victim. Fiercely, he clung to her hand, his shortcomings all too clear. His assurances that he would have her back were hollow—looking at her now. Lying in this bed, lifeless, impotent, in sleep because of a lapse on his part. _All his fault_.

Once, which now seemed so long ago, he had been livid with her because she'd struck down Sorensen and then had lied about it. She'd been pardoned and he was free to deride himself. He knew full well that he had nearly crossed that fine line, fantasizing about that corrupt man's demise once he'd learned what Niels had had in mind for the surviving population. Unbelievably, he'd taken out his self-condemnation, coupled with his growing attraction to her and his thirst for obliterating the sub, on Rachel.

She'd confessed to him once that distancing herself from people helped her to cope when understanding them was beyond her. Hadn't he read her the riot act the day she'd disagreed with him? Hadn't she made it crystal that working with Niels went against everything she held as sacred? And what had he done? Knocked her down, bullied her with the blunt force of scathing words.

"_He killed my wife!"_

Those words echoed in the dark recesses of his mind, impugning him. Had she killed the rogue, under the impression, as mistaken as it might have been, that that was what he had wanted? His wife's death avenged? Shed Niel's blood for Darien's? Though balking at the idea, still, Tom forced himself to embrace the difficult conclusion that he'd perhaps given not so tacit approval that she go ahead to do what she thought was right.

He'd blown it, having allowed his grief over Darien's loss to bleed through, pushing all the wrong buttons. And for the woman who at one time had found it easier to seek refuge in aloofness, Tom had been her trigger. She'd connected, with _him_, overturning her detached sensibilities. Rachel had blossomed, not only perfecting the cure, but spreading it with arms wide open to a frantic populace.

And now here she was…hibernating, so her body could troubleshoot the damage that had been done and restore. He, a sentinel at her bedside, keeping vigil, reordering his life for her. "Can you hear me, Rachel? If you can…" He gave her hand a more gentle squeeze this time, before raising it to his mouth to kiss it as his contrite heart mandated. "I'll never stop talking until you come back to me…"

He'd tried to make things right between them, after Tex had handed him his head. Sitting in this sterile hospital room, Tom blinked, remembering how much it had hurt, Tex shooting from the hip, reaming him out for his scandalous behavior. That very moonlit night, Tom had charged into her cabin, bearing a food-laden tray, to find her cocooned like a butterfly chrysalis, slowly wasting away for lack of nourishment, physically and emotionally because of his spurning her. Tenderly, he'd coaxed her, had told her how sorry he was for treating her contemptibly and she'd responded because, and he wasn't being smug about it now, Rachel fed upon him. Their relationship was reciprocal. Why else was he here, pleading with her to shake off this mask of tragedy and live? Live for them.

His train of thought conveyed him back to their first shipboard dinner they'd shared, to cherish, seared in his consciousness. These urgent memories flooding his addled brain made him squirm, as another tigerishly pounced. She'd saved his life, extracting shrapnel from him, stitching him up with magnificence. That was she, every breath Rachel took validated how precious she was. He would sit with her like this for years, if he had to. He owed her what he couldn't deny, so very much.

Fearlessly, he repeated what he'd told her after his subsequent surgery for her to hear again. "You're my lifeline and I'm _never_ letting you go." His fingers braided with hers, Tom squashed her fragile hand as a tidal wave of remembrances swamped him, showing no signs of abating. His Rachel loved him, scars and all, as he would love her with hers, forever tatted on her chest.

In his cabin with his decrying his ugly scar, she'd floored him, having flung _that_ word, meant to bolster his ego. And boy, had it, assuring him that no man aboard the _Nathan James_ held a candle to him.

'_Sexy.'_

"You're sexy," he whispered in Rachel's ear, kissing its soft, pliant shell as he stared down the length of her perfect nose plugged by the catheter. The odor of medicinally-starched hospital sheets drove home where they could be spending considerable time as a unit. "When Ash, Sam and Dad come, this room'll be humming." As he stroked her smooth forehead, he heaved, "You'll see." He recalled that's what Rachel had said when assuring him that there was no cause for him to be jealous where Tex was concerned.

She had survived being ashore with the V-team, only to wind up a victim from this surprise attack. How cruel, especially now, life could be. With her hand to his lips, Tom closed his eyes. His lips moved, he uttering no sound, reliving that special look she'd given him before she'd left his ship so he could sink the sub. Behind his eyelids, he saw her dressed to the nines in that fine lace dress. He should have told her again how 'adorable' she had looked in those shoes too. Women really liked hearing stuff like that. He warmed, getting a bit woozy, with his mind repeating his popping the question to her in his hotel room.

She'd accepted, and accused his kiss was 'killer.' His insisting that it was the other way around, calling her a vixen…

His heart bursting, the tempo of his mind spiraling out of control, Tom cried out, "You come back to me, Darling, I'll never—and I mean not ever—treat you mean, ever again. Just wake up. Wake up so we can begin. Together, like we're meant to." Vowing to raise the roof, his voice crescendoed, with the words of an old song he would hum, egging him on, he swore, "'Here I am, Baby. Come and take me. Here I am, Baby. Come and take me. Take me by the hand. Show me. Here I am, Baby…"

His eyes shot open.

The electrifying squeeze of his hand made him yelp in shock and rapturous delight, joy unbounded. Her harder squeeze drove him to bellow. "God!"

As she clawed to the surface from the watery-like abyss at a snail's pace, her eyes still closed, her voice, a raspy muffle, rustled from her, "Is…is…that…a…a promise?"

With tears streaming down his face, wafting and warping every which way, Tom roared, "Anything!" Crushing her face to his bosom.

"Y-you'll…" She licked her cracked, dry as dust lips. "N-never…e-ever…treat…m-me…mean?"

"'Here I am, Baby!"

Breathing easier, some color already returning to her high-boned cheeks, Rachel nodded slightly. "I...hold...you to...that."

"For as long as we live," Tom pledged, his elation overflowing as Rachel fussed with the catheter. "Don't mess with that," he ordered.

"Who...who's...the doctor here?"

"Just you. No argument." As she scrutinized him with eyes that were focusing better, he lost himself in them and he replied, "Just you, with me."

She didn't mean to yawn, but couldn't help it. "Stay with me."

"You don't have to ask. It's a given. Now and forever."

* * *

We need Season 3… Love you guys!


	16. Chapter 16 - Not Strangers In The Night

He began to toss and turn, finally awakening with a start from a sound sleep. Fat drops of sweat beaded his forehead. The pulse at the side of his neck was going a mile a minute. He was in his cabin, but for a moment, that instant before being fully awake, he was dazed, unsure where he really was.

Confused, he lay stone still until he shuddered, a coldness weighing against him. She would come into his cabin and light the whole cramped space up, not saying a word. Regal. He, waiting on her every word…

Tom peered at nothing, probing absolute darkness until he gasped. Forcing himself to breathe in, next he held his breath. He tingled, longing for her touch. Another moment dragged by, melding into another; he flinched. Was that _her face_ he saw?

Was it, or merely faint shadows writhing on the wall?

Impossible it was she, but when he thought about her intently, the seemingly impossible transformed into substance…

Her calming, rich voice reached his ears and whispered, "I'm waiting…waiting for you, Tom. Where are you? I can't do this alone. We're a team. We're inseparable." That last bit reverberated in his ears.

Shirtless, he shivered, not due to any cold. The air in his cabin was on the stuffy side. There had been no change in the air chilling him. Far from that; he was thrilled whenever he heard her speak his name, so impossibly inviting, as though he could reach out to touch her.

"Find me…find me…find me. I'm here for the taking…"

"Where must I look, Rachel? Though ravaged by fear and uncertainty of what the future holds, the world is still a pretty big place."

Intensely, he reminded himself, as the hard scowl on his face deepened, swallowed up by the inky night, that he's never accepted her death. To accept it would mean subjugation to crippling despair. Their lies would not defeat him.

In his gut, he knew she lived. Their smokescreen wouldn't work on him. Her voice, despite its being in his head, although maybe what he heard so often wasn't all him, spurred him on. Unfinished business was unfinished business. She won't let him forget; she'd been a pawn. Had they all been? Were they still?

If, for whatever reason they had been, and still were being used, it was up to the _Nathan James_' loyalists to uncover any and all misdeeds.

Things had never added up from day one when no one could ascertain what had happened to her, aside from the vague information that she'd been attacked. Rachel, whether in reality, or in figment, was reaching out to him.

Not stopping himself, surly, Tom grunted all too familiar words, "A cover-up isn't out of the question. Michener's handling of things never felt right. Not with me, and Mike. What had he really been up to? Perpetrating his own agenda. Now he's gone. What did he do with Rachel?" His breath caught in his throat as he sighed. "I won't let her go. I'll never let her go. I see her, feel her everywhere. Hear her voice whisper in my ear so no one else hears. She's not dead. Someway, somehow…Rachel's alive!"

The boyish side of him, that he would never truly surrender, as determined as he was to keep it under wraps, gave the mind-set three cheers. That side of him constantly reminded Tom about his prize being out there in this sick, both figuratively and literally, world. She called to him and it was up to him to get to her, rescue her from whatever it was that kept them apart.

He scrubbed a hand over his face as he relived what they'd shared, all the nuances, the triumphs, the defeats they had weathered together, if not actually hand-in-hand, at least soul-to-soul. He revived her bewitching eyes, mentally gazing into them, getting thoroughly lost, but found. Rachel's fortitude and courage would always leave him weak in the knees.

He had _never_ said goodbye to her, never would. Not in his mind, nor in his heart, since she possessed them both.

Too wired to convince himself that he needed to go back to sleep, Tom decided spending time with his unfading memories served him best. Those times he treasured being with her rejuvenated him. They spurred him on to greater heights, feeding his will to get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding the supposed lifeless Rachel's enigmatic disappearance.

Tom, along with the rest of his crew, had learned of her being shot. Those had been the only details provided to them, despite Tom's having pressed. In the shuffle of his assuming his new post, going along with Michener's insistence, learning what had really befallen Rachel had gotten lost.

Why hadn't any of them been permitted to view the body? Michener and his people had spewed some mighty powerful rhetorical double talk until they had gotten their way.

No one from the _Nathan James_, not even Chandler, had been permitted to see their adopted fellow crew member. Not as much as a word had been disclosed as to her body's whereabouts. Just words spoken at a quickie memorial, where again, supposedly, her ashes in a dull grey metal urn had been deposited.

Circumstances surrounding her alleged demise had been swept under a bureaucratic rug all too well. No one, not Chandler, not even the members of his medical team had been allowed to actually see her body for themselves. Their having been kept away from Rachel gnawed at Tom, always embedded in his mind, noting it as being 'fishy.' He'd had nothing solid to go on. He couldn't call any one person, or any persons out without concrete evidence that Dr. Rachel Scott had been the victim of homegrown foul play.

The idea of what lay ahead for people still reeling from the Red Flu's aftermath and what had arisen from the horizon, the mutation, along with the naming of this new president, Howard Oliver, filled Tom with foreboding.

What agenda did the former Vice President embrace? It was becoming ever-more apparent that non-Nathan James-affiliated personnel seemed to have one.

"_Find me, find me, find me_," echoed in and through Tom's mind, snubbing out all other thoughts.

"That's what I wanted you to do with me, after your tour of duty for Michener," he mumbled for his benefit, adding a long sigh. "I will find you, Rachel. I promise you that. There's too much unfinished business. So much need…" He thought about what they were up against now, the virus' new mutation, the villainy running rampant in untold corners of this perilous earth-wide environment fraught with untold woes.

Striking alliances to serve the greater good bespoke of expedience, but 'making nice' with sketchy persons and their affiliations could prove grievously unwise in the long run. So went the way of this toxic new world.

"I need you too—won't rest until I know what really happened. I've promised you many things, my darling…" His voice trailed, his tongue lingering over those last two words. For once he wasn't blinking back tears prickling his tired eyes. "Finding you isn't a promise…it is my mission."

Having said that, Tom eased his battered torso back down in conjunction with scooting up his legs. They were bent at the knees with the soles of his feet planted firmly in the mattress. A grim expression settled over his face; his eyes were closed. His mind languished as her lips devoured his, reminiscent of that kiss aboard the _Vyerni_, their souls merging, and his deep chuckling echoed in his cabin.

No one would call Thomas Chandler, Chief of Naval Operations mad, at least not to his face. Maybe Mike, if he really thought he was since the new captain of the _Nathan James_ had quite a pair.

No, he wasn't mad, Tom told himself, thinking just how sane he was. Rachel breathed his name, making everything clear.

He was possessed.

There was a difference. Captain Ahab would readily come to mind, serving to remind him.


End file.
